


Into Dust

by ThisBeautifulDrowning



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Bogus Science, Graphic Descriptions of Mutation, Graphic descriptions of violence, M/M, Medical Experimentation, Minor Character Death, Original Character(s), Present Tense, Rimming, Slash, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2014-04-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 08:49:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 89,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisBeautifulDrowning/pseuds/ThisBeautifulDrowning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Khan was pissed about Admiral Marcus using his crew as leverage, what's he going to do when he learns his blood was used to build an empire? </p>
<p>Jim can't wait to find out. He plans to be there when the shit hits the fan. </p>
<p>He'll even bring the popcorn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ONE - Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This plot bunny bit _hard_ after a second watching of ST:ID. Leaving all the other inconsistencies the movie had aside, what bugged me the most was that McCoy basically _brought Kirk back from the dead_ , and it was handled as though it wasn't a big deal. Kirk was dead, and then he wasn't. And everyone was all ladee-daa about it. In the novelization, McCoy even went on to say that he couldn't wait to publish 'the results' of his work.
> 
> This story attempts (!), in a very non-scientific way ( as in, I pulled 100% of the science out of my ass and then mangled Trek canon a bit while I was at it ) to explore the possible ramifications the discovery of a cure for 'death' could have on a Starfleet that's obviously not operating on full thrusters ( see: Admiral Marcus and his super-sekrit Section 31 WHO BUILT A FRIGGING DREADNOUGHT WITHOUT ANYONE NOTICING WTF ).
> 
> **WARNINGS:** I tend to be very, very descriptive in my writing. That includes descriptions of **death, corpses, sex** , and other **possibly icky things**. While this story does not contain anything I consider triggering ( non-con, dub-con, physical abuse, mental abuse, etc. ), please proceed with caution. **People die**. A lot of people die, either mentioned in passing or written out in scenes. It is not Major Character Death, but, well... If you can't stand the idea of our beloved Enterprise crew having been drastically reduced in numbers, do not read. If you feel I've missed a tag, please point it out.

**Into Dust**

 

**'You should have learned by now**

**I'll burn this whole world down'**

**( Breaking Benjamin )**

 

 

**PROLOGUE**

 

\- - -

 

_**( Jeremy Doyen,** _ **A History of Empires** **_, publication date 2595 )_ **

_'It is, in hindsight, impossible to determine if the events transpiring in the year 2259 were the catalysts of the Klingon-Federation War and the subsequent rise of the Reborn Empire, or merely contributors. An educated guess can still be attempted, however._

 

_One would do well to remember that the United Federation of Planets, along with its military arm, Starfleet, were looking back on a long list of conflicts at that time already, and may simply have become too complacent in their assumed position of power, or too arrogant, to realize the fallacy within their approach to exploration: even peaceful exploration is still an encroachment on space inhabited by someone else, no matter how noble the encroaching party's intentions may be. You cannot run through someone's house, even if the door was open, even if you don't steal or break anything, and expect them to simply accept it._

 

_Some historians say the war was a matter of circumstance; I for one say the war was inevitable.'_

 

\- - -

 

Too many Klingons die in the Ketha Province for their High Council to let it sit quietly as yet another point of discontent between the Empire and the United Federation of Planets. The saber rattling begins while on Earth, rescue teams have only just set up triage around the perimeter of the crash site of the _USS Vengeance_. Reeling from the unexpected, violent end of an internal conflict that shakes the very foundations of the organization and leaves a gaping hole in San Francisco's skyline, Starfleet Command fails to follow up on reports of heightened Klingon activity on the edges of the neutral zone: they have a city in shock to handle, an admiral's questionable orders to decipher, and more than 100,000 corpses to bury.

 

Doctor Leonard McCoy milks blood from the arm of a heavily sedated, genetically engineered man: enough to save a friend's life, enough to keep for later experiments, for complications that may arise, further down the road. The genetically engineered man, considered too dangerous to be allowed consciousness, is frozen when McCoy has what he needs from him, and delivered into Starfleet Command's keeping along with 72 equally frozen individuals.

 

The Klingon attack on Alpha Eridani II goes almost entirely unnoticed. It is only when the dust has settled, the electrical fires put out and the worst of the wreckage cleared away, that investigations into the activity reports are made. By that time, a week after a Dreadnought darkened the San Francisco sky, the human colony on Eridani II has been reduced to a footnote in the Klingon chronicles of conquered worlds. Eridani's capital, Heliopolis, has been razed to the ground, its inhabitants slaughtered or captured.

 

Captain James Tiberius Kirk, Jim to his friends, rises as Lazarus did from the grave. He does so in the midst of the public cry of outrage when news of Alpha Eridani II's fall into Klingon hands finally reaches Earth, and his miraculous recovery from clinically ascertained _exitus_ does not reach the press at all.

 

But it does reach a small circle of men and women within Starfleet Command, who are scrambling to erase any traces of their affiliation with the late, disgraced Admiral Alexander Marcus. While search-and-rescue ships are dispatched to Alpha Eridani II, along with a sizable number of moderately armed escort vessels, these men and women confiscate the preliminary notes written by Leonard McCoy, as well as the twenty-odd vials of Khan's blood leftover from Jim's treatment.

 

McCoy is summoned to appear before a jury.

 

\- - -

 

_'Really, doctor. You injected the blood of a human being into a dead Tribble.' Admiral Kerensky's face shows the depth of her disapproval; she's all but spitting out the words. 'I understand scientific curiosity, but wouldn't you agree that you've crossed the line of ethics there rather blatantly? The captain's log of the Enterprise does correlate your claim that you initially performed tests because Captain Kirk ordered you, so that the nature of your prisoner's apparent 'super powers' could be ascertained. However, what you did went above and beyond a mere physio report. You didn't even attain your test subject's permission for any of the questionable 'experiments' you ran on his blood.'_

 

_McCoy stares at her in disbelief. 'Considering Khan's actions -'_

 

_'Khan's – or John Harrison's – actions are not under scrutiny here,' Admiral Kerensky cuts him off. 'Yours are.'_

 

_McCoy is torn between anger and a dull sense of shame. He feels a little bit like he did when his ex-wife accused him of all the things he'd done wrong during their marriage, things he'd done_ right _, in his opinion. He wants to shout and argue, like he did during the divorce, but he doesn't. In their eyes, he is already burned._

 

_He doesn't point out that Khan, if silently, agreed to have his blood drawn, that first time. No one forced anyone to do anything. He doesn't expand on the many promising venues his experimental research on Khan's blood has opened_. _They wouldn't listen to any of it._

 

_McCoy is sitting before a jury of his peers, and they care little for the atrocious acts committed by that genetically engineered asshole. What they care about is_ his _conduct, and whether or not he acted accordingly to the regulations set forth by Starfleet and the oath McCoy swore when he became a doctor._

 

_An oath he_ may _have broken, or at least bent a little, but McCoy doesn't regret it: neither the experiments on the necrotic host, nor the induced coma he subjected Khan to when they finally got him back on the Enterprise. McCoy saved Jim's life; he isn't sorry at all for whatever damage ( hah! ) or injustice he might have done Khan. He'd do it, again, in a second, to save a friend's life – ethics be damned._

 

_And if this jury – this mock trial – means people will stay_ away _from his friend, well, then that's a sacrifice McCoy is more than willing to make._

 

\- - -

 

McCoy does not lose his medical license, but he is ordered to keep his mouth shut and banned from further research. That suits him fine. He doesn't have time for research, anyway. The search-and-rescue ships and their escorts come under heavy fire from the Klingons, who now consider Alpha Eridani II theirs, and limp back to Earth, hundreds of wounded on board. The rescue teams in San Francisco are still pulling victims of Khan's insane attack on the city out of the rubble.

 

Leonard McCoy became a doctor because he wanted to save lives, so he throws himself into his work and attempts to leave the hearing, the accusations, behind. He'll have a censure in his record, but what's a censure compared to saving a friend's life? If they are very, very lucky, Jim and he, the confiscation of his research means that Starfleet Command won't look _too_ closely at the results McCoy's research already _has_ had.

 

Starfleet Command, now headed by Admiral Braddock, is kept unaware of McCoy's hearing and the confiscation of the doctor's research. Admiral Kerensky, Head of Medical and Biological Research at the Academy, seals the transcripts of the hearing, marks them as confidential, and finally erases them from the data archives completely.

 

McCoy's experiments and the vials of Khan's blood are made available to people Kerensky trusts to know what to do with them: Section 31. Admiral Marcus may be dead, but there are people willing to pick up where the good admiral left off, and Susan Kerensky knows all of them.

 

\- - -

 

It's November 14th, 2259, and Jim's finally cleared for active duty. In his case, that means a metric ton of paperwork and debriefings his extended stay at the hospital shielded him from, so far.

 

He can't say he's looking forward to the paperwork or the debriefings – he gets to _write_ up his version of events, and then he gets to _tell_ his version of events, over and over again. He's glad now that his miraculous recovery from death didn't make the news; every reporter on the planet would want an interview with him. It's better for everyone involved if there's no digging into any of that. _He's_ not ready yet, to dig into any of that.

 

There are other things to focus on now, anyway.

 

War is standing at the doorstep of the Alpha Quadrant and casting its long shadow over the planets close to the Klingon Empire. It's all a bit surreal – the very thing Admiral Marcus warned him about is now in full progress. The guilt Jim feels, the gut-wrenching knowledge that his actions on Qo'noS may have accelerated the Klingons' encroachment on Federation space, will hopefully start to fade once he's back out there, with a fully repaired _Enterprise_ , to aid in Starfleet's attempts to keep Earth's colonies and the home worlds of their allied species safe.

 

McCoy, overseeing Jim's hazardous way of shoving clothes and other personal items into a carry-all, remarks innocently, “One could think you're eager to get out of here.”

 

“You think?” Jim turns a grin on his friend. “Whatever gave you that impression?” He reaches over and slaps McCoy on the shoulder. “I was stuck here for two months, Bones. Two months! I can't _wait_ to get my hands on some real food that wasn't processed beyond recognition and put through a blender! Admit it, you ordered the nurses to keep serving this stuff to me, just to annoy me.”

 

Easily, McCoy rises to the challenge. “Now listen, Jim, hospital food is made specifically to -”

 

“Oh, _come on_.” Jim rolls his eyes. “I was sucking steak through a straw yesterday -”

 

They're in the middle of a loud, friendly discussion about the nutritional value of meat put through a blender versus meat that looks like it actually came from a cow at some point, when Scotty bursts through the door, startling them both.

 

“There's not going to be a trial!” Scotty announces. Taking in Jim's and McCoy's stunned expressions, he elaborates, “Thought I'd warn you. They're pulling in all the _Enterprise_ crew members, to make sure no one goes blabbing. It's a cover-up. They're going to sweep this whole thing under the carpet.”

 

On the other side of the hospital bed, McCoy has gone sour-faced, arms crossed over his chest. Processing Scotty's breathless announcement a second time, in case he just misunderstood, Jim swallows down the bile rising in his throat. “That's preposterous.” It's more than that, it's _wrong_. “The public has a right to know. How are they going to sweep this,” he flaps a hand at the window, “under the carpet?”

 

The skeletal metal carcass of the _USS Vengeance_ is visible from Jim's hospital window. It's visible from every damn vantage point in the city; it's a giant, impossible-to-miss _space ship_ sticking out of the middle of San Francisco. For two months now, the rescue teams have been working on the crash site, and they're still finding the squashed, burned and otherwise mangled remains of victims. They haven't even _begun_ to clear away the wreckage of the skyscrapers the _Vengeance_ razed to the ground, but already the death tally has gone past the 100,000 mark.

 

“Engine failure,” Scotty says.

 

McCoy's eyes nearly bug from his skull. “You've _got_ to be kidding me.”

 

Scotty shakes his head no. “That's the official story. A new prototype of ship, something went wrong, fatal engine failure. Unfortunate that San Francisco happened to be in the way when it crashed, but hey,” Scotty sneers, “at least the ship didn't come down right in the middle of the city, right? Small mercies, and all that.”

 

“And who's going to believe that?” McCoy scoffs.

 

Scotty lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “Who _won't_ , without anyone saying otherwise, and -”

 

“What about Khan?” Jim asks, interrupting Scotty. It's not worry for the safety of Khan Noonien Singh that's driving a hot spike of anger right down the middle of Jim's brain, down to the pit of his belly and out into his limbs until his hands are clenching into fists. Jim owes Khan nothing.

 

But people died to ensure Khan was brought back to Earth to stand trial. Members of the crew of the _Enterprise_ died when Jim made the decision to ignore Admiral Marcus' orders, when he ordered Sulu to set course for Earth. To think that it was all for nothing – that all the men and women who lost their lives to uphold Starfleet regulations, morals, _ethics_ died in vain – that they sacrificed so much only to have even that little bit of victory taken away from them...

 

“I don't know, captain,” Scotty says, sounding subdued and bitter now. “It's not like they can put him on trial without exposing the truth. This all smacks of someone's desperate attempt to keep their reputation intact. Think about what would happen if the public got wind of a Starfleet _admiral_ going rogue. The integrity of everyone in the chain of command would come under scrutiny.”

 

“It wasn't Marcus who crashed the _Vengeance_ into the bay,” McCoy argues.

 

Scotty gives McCoy a long look. “It was Marcus who woke Khan. It was Marcus who enabled Khan to get his hands on that ship in the first place, by bringing it to the edge of the neutral zone.” At McCoy's immediate, angry grunt, he holds up a placating hand. “I'm not defending that maniac. Either of them. This is a political clusterfuck of epic proportions. They can't put Khan on trial without bringing up Marcus' involvement. _That's_ what they're trying to avoid. So there isn't going to be a trial at all.”

 

All of Jim's looking forward to getting out of the hospital has been replaced by a bitter feeling of defeat. Worse, there is a definite edge of betrayal that cuts away at him, laced with gnawing guilt. He sits on the edge of his bed, listening to Scotty and McCoy argue back and forth about responsibilities and politics, and thinks, _This is not the Starfleet I signed up for_.

 

\- - -

 

The Klingon-Federation War begins officially on December 1st, 2259.

 

It is as if the Klingons, having licked blood when they conquered Alpha Eridani II, suddenly decide to go all out. Klingon space is vast, cluttered with dozens of planets to hide War Birds on; there is no end to the armada of ships that pour over the edges of the neutral zone and spill carnage into the Alpha Quadrant. The Klingon High Council turns a deaf ear to all diplomatic attempts. It's time to show these filthy humans, these peace-loving explorers who go where they're not wanted, the might of the Klingon Empire.

 

Ironically, Admiral Marcus was right: Starfleet _isn't_ prepared. Fleet vessels are armed with phaser cannons and torpedo banks, but that's nothing compared to what the Klingons are loading their ships with. It's not that the Starfleet ships are entirely outgunned - they do manage to drive back the Klingons from Arakon before the human colony there is sacked - but the Federation is losing ships faster than they can repair them.

 

Luckily for Earth and Starfleet, Section 31, now under the command of Admiral Kerensky, has a solution to that problem.

 

\- - -

 

_'Ladies and gentlemen, the tide of war is turning.' Admiral Braddock paces the length of the Daystrom Conference Room, slow, measured steps along the window front, hands clasped behind his back. He chooses his words with care, weighs them thoughtfully. It is a delicate matter he means to bring up, and while times may be hard and calls for desperate measures are probably expected, he is not entirely sure of his fellow admirals' reaction._

 

_'We lost the Bradbury. The Endeavor and the Sunstar are in dry dock and can't be expected to be fully functional for weeks.' Braddock arrives at the wall, turns, and returns to his seat at the head of the oval table. 'I was hoping it wouldn't come to this, and I don't expect anyone present to agree with me. But please, consider the possibilities of what I'm about to present to you. There will be a vote at the end of this meeting – anonymous, of course – to decide where we will go from here.'_

 

_Braddock accesses the information he was given, quite unexpectedly, earlier today. He enters a command into the computer mounted on the table in front of him. Simultaneously, the other screens in the conference room, one for each admiral, show the same image Braddock now gazes at._

 

_There are a number of gasps. Collectively, 14 Starfleet admirals move their faces closer to their screens. Only Admiral Kerensky remains seated upright, gaze distant as she stares at San Francisco's skyline outside the windows. Braddock watches her for a moment, wondering what goes through her head, then decides he doesn't want to know. He's only just_ begun _to fully understand what Section 31 is all about. Prior to Admiral Marcus' death at the hands of a madman, Braddock had always assumed it was just a quirky little pet project of Marcus'._

 

_It is so much more._

 

_Braddock glances at his computer screen. The warship shown there as a small, 3-dimensional model is an exact replica of the one that has now been deemed safe to deconstruct. The rescue teams have pulled away from the crash site, the reactor core has been disassembled and made safe, and now the salvage teams are moving in. For the sake of everyone who suffered a loss in the catastrophic crash of the ship, Braddock hopes it won't take longer than a few weeks until the remains of the_ Vengeance _are gone for good._

 

_But god, a_ Vengeance _is what Starfleet needs. Braddock isn't much of a weapon buff, but he's impressed by the destructive capabilities the Dreadnought-class warship has to offer, and that_ speed _..._

 

_Someone clears their throat. Braddock glances up, realizing that everyone in the conference room is looking at him. Right, then. The moment has come to persuade them of the righteousness of his – and Admiral Kerensky's – idea._

 

_He speaks slowly, calmly. “You are all aware of the role a ship of this class played in the recent catastrophe here in San Francisco. I am not asking you to forget, or to ignore. I am asking you to consider the possibilities. Let us give Starfleet a fighting chance. Let us prove that the Federation, and the ideals we stand for, will not be swept aside by one species' destructive attitude.'_

 

_The meeting temporarily breaks up into small groups of admirals standing in corners, their heads together, conversation hushed and fast._

 

_Admiral Kerensky comes to stand at the side of Braddock's chair. 'About my other request -'_

 

_'Not now,' he says. He is watching the other admirals, trying to gauge the effect his short speech has had on them._

 

_Kerensky, obstinately, remains where she is. 'When, then?'_

 

_On a smaller screen portion of Braddock's computer, information of a different kind is scrolling down – information for his eyes only. He can't make heads or tails of most of it – he's not a medical expert – but he knows enough medical jargon to understand the gist of the test results Kerensky showed him, after she gave him the Dreadnought blueprints._

 

_'Think about it,' Kerensky says, low enough so her voice doesn't carry. ' We're not talking about weapons of mass destruction here. I've had my scientists run tests on strains of the Terrellian Plague, and the results are positive. We found a_ cure _. We'll soon be able to vaccinate against one of the deadliest diseases in the galaxy. Think about all the good we could do. It's a short, painless procedure – you've met Captain Kirk since he was released from the hospital. No after-effects. No psychological compound. There's no reason_ not _to.'_

 

_Braddock hisses, 'You're talking about injecting Starfleet members with the blood of that – that madman!'_

 

_'I'm talking about saving lives!' Kerensky hisses back. 'What good are a bunch of Dreadnoughts going to be if we've got no one left to_ fly _them?'_

 

\- - -

 

It is the year 2262. The _Enterprise_ is en route back to Earth from a mission to Starbase 54.

 

Jim's on the bridge when their deep-space sensors pick up the warp signature of another ship. The discussion he's having with Spock and Uhura has gone off on a tangent, and tempers are flaring. Spock and Uhura are all but facing off over the command chair. Jim, unfortunately seated in said command chair, feels like he's about to be scorched alive by the glares his First Officer and Communications Lieutenant are shooting at each other.

 

And they're not even shouting.

 

“It is highly illogical to assume the Andorians or the Tellarites will not join the effort to drive back the Klingon armada,” Spock is saying. “Along with Vulcans and humans, they were the founding members of the United Federation of Planets, and many of their people hold high ranks within Starfleet. Their joining the effort is guaranteed.”

 

Uhura, eyes flashing, juts her chin. “Then what are they waiting for? It's been three years, Spock. We've been at war for three _years_. If they wait much longer, the only 'effort' they'll be contributing to will be mopping up the pieces.”

 

“Such decisions take time. It is a delicate political process that needs -”

 

Uhura pushes her hands into her hips. “It's _not_ a delicate process. It's a simple matter of putting it to a vote, in congress, or to the public. Yes or no. Earth has always come to the aid of its allies. What is the Federation for, if two of its key members can't even decide whether or not they want to help protect Federation space from a Klingon invasion?”

 

Surreptitiously, Jim tries to make himself as small as possible.

 

He has his own theories why the Tellarites and the Andurians are reluctant to officially take Earth's side, but it's not like he could get a word in edgewise in the volley flying above his head, so he keeps his mouth shut and attempts to figure out a way to ooze out of the chair and escape to the other side of the bridge without either Uhura or Spock noticing.

 

The loud wail of an alarm klaxon puts a sudden end to the argument and Jim's tentative escape plans. Breaking off mid-word, Uhura and Spock both retake their positions at their consoles. Jim straightens up and asks, “Mr. Sulu?”

 

“Proximity alert, captain,” Sulu reports, fingers flying over the pilot's console. The wailing alarm fades to a dull background noise. “Ship at warp, headed right for us.”

 

Jim tenses. “Klingons?” They're far too close to Earth for that, but, you never know.

 

“No. Unknown signature, sir.”

 

“ETA?”

 

“Twenty seconds.”

 

“Shields up. Sound warnings ship-wide, alert med bay.”

 

The bridge crew of the _Enterprise_ falls into the sort of orderly chaos Jim has come to expect and love about his people. Everyone knows exactly what to do.

 

“Ten seconds, sir,” Sulu says. “Five, four, three, two -”

 

A nightmare drops out of warp directly in front of the _Enterprise_.

 

Jim _flinches_ , bone-deep, a rush of memories driving rational thought out of his head. It can't be. It's not possible – that ship was destroyed. Jim was on Earth when they finally took down the stripped remains and erected a memorial statue in place of the _Vengeance_. The site has become a national landmark, and there is _no way_ -

 

A hush of silence has fallen over the bridge crew. Sulu recovers from shock first. “Getting a reading now, captain. They're...not scanning us. Weapons systems are not active.”

 

“Captain,” Uhura chimes in, “they're hailing us. Open broadcast, Federation channel.”

 

This feels altogether too much like a repeat scenario from a time Jim would rather forget. For a moment, he can't tear his gaze away from the black warship that looms threateningly through the forward screen. It's an impressive, intimidating sight. “On screen.”

 

“Yes, captain,” Uhura confirms. “Accepting incoming transmission now.”

 

Jim himself stood on a Dreadnought bridge once and held a phaser to Admiral Marcus' head. He remembers the dark interior design, the blue and white lights, the angular command chair Marcus sprawled in. He's had nightmares about that bridge and the events that took place on it, three years ago.

 

But it's not Admiral Marcus' miraculously returned to life who greets him with a clipped, “Captain Kirk.”

 

Admiral Susan Kerensky is a small woman, with gunmetal-gray hair. She's dwarfed by the large command chair of the Dreadnought, sitting there primly with one leg crossed over the other, but she still projects an aura of calm authority that comes from a lifetime of giving orders and having others scramble to fulfill them. Jim has met her before – once in the hospital, when she came to welcome him back among the living and warn him about speaking to the press, and once about a year ago, during shore leave. They'd exchanged the necessary pleasantries required of Starfleet captains meeting Starfleet admirals in restaurants by chance.

 

“Admiral. You gave us all a bit of a shock, coming out of warp like that. Nice ship.” Jim's heart is still beating in his throat. “You'll forgive me if I'm not exactly thrilled to see it.”

 

And he isn't the only one. Sulu's hand is slowly inching toward the lever of the warp drive. Everyone on the bridge of the _Enterprise_ is staring at the screen, tense and ready to spring into action at the drop of a pin.

 

Kerensky nods shortly. Her tone of voice is entirely unapologetic. “I am aware of your previous encounters with a ship of this classification, captain. Suffice to say, I am not Admiral Marcus. We're on this ship's maiden voyage, and we came across your warp signature purely by happenstance. I thought we'd drop by and say hello.”

 

Jim isn't sure if he's meant to take that as an attempt at humor. Half of him expects Sulu to shout that the Dreadnought is locking phasers on the _Enterprise_ , for his ship to shudder under the impact of torpedoes. He settles for nodding; what he wants to _say_ to Kerensky would get him a formal reprimand.

 

“As unplanned as this meeting was,” Kerensky continues, unfazed by Jim's silence, “it's also fortunate that we did meet. Starfleet is in the process of distributing a new form of vaccine against several galaxy-wide diseases, and we carry a batch of the required serum. You and your crew would have been called in for the medical procedure next time you docked at the space station, but we might as well get that over with now.”

 

Jim lifts an eyebrow. She can't be serious. “You want me to send my crew over to your ship? Here?” They're not exactly in enemy space, but far away enough from Earth for him to resent the idea of beaming anyone anywhere. The Klingons aren't shy when it comes to launching surprise attacks, and the last thing Jim wants is for half his crew to be on another ship when that happens. “All due respect, ma'am, but I don't think that's a good idea.”

 

Kerensky eyes him coolly. “I never said I want your crew on my ship. I will have the required amount of serum vials beamed over to the _Enterprise_. Your CMO will be responsible for distribution. I require the number of people currently stationed aboard the _Enterprise_ , of course.”

 

Chastised, Jim bows his head. “We'll send that right away, ma'am. My apologies for assuming.” Kerensky nods sharply. The transmission screen goes blank, leaving Jim to attempt to slowly let go of the tension that's gripping him. The sight of the Dreadnought hanging motionless in the darkness of space in front of the _Enterprise_ is doing nothing for his nerves. “Mr. Chekov, transmit our crew list to the – what's the name of that ship, anyway?”

 

“ _USS Skyward_ , sir.”

 

“Send our crew list. Dispatch a security detail to the transporter room.” There's no _obvious_ reason to suspect Admiral Kerensky is going to beam over anything else but the serum she mentioned, but to say that he's rattled by the unexpected encounter would be an understatement: Jim isn't going to take any chances.

 

“Yes, sir,” Chekov confirms.

 

Spock steps up to the command chair, hands clasped behind him. “Captain, I was not aware Starfleet Command was building Dreadnought-class star ships. Might I suggest contacting headquarters to confirm Admiral Kerensky's mission status? If this is indeed the _Skyward's_ maiden voyage, there should be a record.”

 

“Do it.” It's not going to look good on his file if he contacts HQ to confirm an _admiral's_ actions, but Jim doesn't care. He'll take the reprimand for ignoring the chain of command, as long as it means that this _isn't_ a scarily accurate repeat of previous events. “Mr. Spock, the chair is yours. I'll be in the transporter room, so keep me posted. Mr. Sulu, as soon as that serum is on board, the shields go back up.” Jim eyes the _Skyward_ once more. That unsettled feeling isn't going away. “And keep an eye out for anything untoward.”

 

Sulu strokes the warp speed lever. “Aye, captain. Course is set for earth. They do anything funny, I'll punch it.”

 

Not that that's going to do them any good. The last time Sulu 'punched it', they were pursued into the warp speed channel by the _USS Vengeance_ , and then shot right out of it. Still, Jim appreciates the foresight. With a nod to Spock, he heads for the transporter room.

 

McCoy meets him halfway. Judging by the stormy expression on his face, he's about as happy as Jim is. “It's completely unprofessional to expect us to do this in space, while we're in the middle of a mission,” he grouses, falling into step with Jim. “Vaccination can have serious side effects, depending on dosage and potency. Nausea, headaches, diarrhea, allergic reactions, you name it, someone on this ship is going to have it.”

 

Jim considers this. “Orders are orders.” Kerensky hadn't outright ordered him, but Jim can read between the lines. “Can we do this a handful of people at a time? If there are going to be any of the symptoms you described, I'd rather not have half the crew come down with something while we're still out here.”

 

“I'll start on a small test group.” McCoy brandishes one of his beloved scanners. “ _After_ I ran some tests. The CMO of the _Skyward_ sent me the specs of that vaccine. I admit I only glanced at it, but it's insane. The dossier lists a few of the deadliest diseases of the galaxy, and that _can't_ be right. There's no way they can squeeze vaccinations against the Terrellian Plague _and_ the Telurian Plague into one and the same bottle – we're talking about two completely independent pathogens here.”

 

“I'll take your word for it.” They reach the transporter room. Jim's communicator beeps. He motions for McCoy to go ahead. “Kirk here.”

 

“Captain,” Spock says, “I have confirmed the _Skyward's_ mission status with headquarters. The ship is indeed on its maiden voyage under the command of Admiral Kerensky. I have also taken the liberty to seek confirmation of the _Skyward's_ destination. They are headed for the human colony on Arakon.”

 

Nothing amiss there, then. Kerensky is headed for Arakon to distribute the vaccine among the colonists there: an easy mission to test a new ship's capabilities. Still, Jim can't dismiss the frisson of anger curling through his belly. Considering his first encounter with that particular class of ship, Command could at least have done him the courtesy of warning him that he might run into another one.

 

His communicator beeps again. It's Sulu, this time. “Captain, the _Skyward_ has resumed its course.”

 

“Thank you, Mr. Sulu. Set course for our next mission destination, then. We've lingered here long enough.” He walks back to the transporter room, feeling the _Enterprise's_ warp engines engage, a fine tremor under the soles of his boots even the internal dampeners can't entirely compensate for. “I'll be back on the bridge in a few minutes. Kirk out.”

 

A security detail is standing on the beaming pad, phaser rifles at the ready and pointed at two stacks of perfectly harmless plastic crates. McCoy, PADD under one arm, is rooting around in one of them, pulling a handful of vials out and holding them up. “So, it's just the vaccine, right?”

 

“Enough to inject everyone on board.” McCoy jiggles his handful of vials. The amber liquid in them catches and reflects the overhead lights. “I'll run the standard tests. And some others.” He looks fascinated, a little worried around the edges, but mostly like a kid with a new toy. “I'll let you know what I find.”

 

There's nothing more for him to do here, so Jim heads back to the bridge. He could go to the med bay with McCoy, to oversee the tests his CMO is going to run on that serum, but his heart isn't in it: he's tired now, almost exhausted, slowly coming down from an adrenaline high.

 

And he's still angry.

 

He's tempted to contact headquarters and ask Admiral Braddock just what the hell the deal is with a Dreadnought flying around, but he can predict the answer: the war with the Klingons isn't going so well. New Vulcan has become a non-factor in the United Federation of Planets, thanks to Nero reducing their numbers to a paltry 10,000 or so, and the Tellarites and Andorians are hemming and hawing, their participation in the war hinging on political merry-go-rounds: stalling tactics, age-old, tried and true. No one wants to get caught in the crossfire between Earth and the Klingons.

 

Earth needs every bit of leeway they can scramble up, if they want to win.

 

Apparently that means utilizing warships designed by a 300-year-old lunatic. Jim will just have to get over it.

 

\- - -

 

Six hours later, McCoy all but puts a dent into the door to the captain's quarters, hammering his fist against it. He strides in past a sleep-rumpled, small-eyed Jim, heads straight for the mini-bar that isn't exactly Starfleet regulation, and pours himself a large glass of expensive Orion brandy. The contents of the glass disappear down McCoy's throat in two large gulps.

 

“Sure,” Jim mumbles, shutting the door, “come right in.” He's only half-awake, navigating the way back to his bed in small shuffles. He was having a nice dream – something about that feisty lieutenant from Biology, with the lush mouth and the perky tits – and now he's feeling cotton-headed and unhappy. He's only been asleep for, Christ, four hours. But McCoy wouldn't barge in like this without a reason, so Jim flops down on the edge of his bed and waits.

 

More Orion brandy is poured. McCoy carries the glass to the comfortable armchair adjacent to Jim's bed, shoves Jim's pants, shirt and undershirt to the floor, and sits down. “I'm about to tell you to do something that might cost me my medical license, not to mention my post as your CMO, and you your captaincy.” He takes a smaller sip of the potent brandy, then balances the glass on his knee, and gives Jim an expectant look. “Are you ready for this?”

 

Jim wakes up the rest of the way. “What's this about?”

 

McCoy fishes a narrow vial out of his pocket and holds it up for Jim to see. “This.” He turns the vial between his fingers, the liquid inside sloshing around. “The vaccine Admiral Kerensky beamed over.”

 

“What about it?”

 

“It's not a vaccine. It's blood. Khan's blood, to be specific. If you want me to be extra-specific, it's a highly concentrated, synthesized version of the serum I used to revive you, mixed with a bunch of chemical accelerators.”

 

The words seem to suck all the air out of the room. Jim thinks for a moment that he's dreaming – that the recent encounter with the _Skyward_ has triggered his subconscious into dredging up the most unpleasant aspect of his very personal experience with Dreadnoughts and the mad people who fly them – and gives a short bark of laughter, utterly mirthless. “You're joking.”

 

“No.”

 

Jim nervously scrubs both hands through his hair. “You made a mistake. One of your tests went wrong.”

 

“I think I'm qualified enough to recognize my own work when I see it,” McCoy responds flatly. “Command may have confiscated my research, but I'd recognize the particular chemical makeup of this,” he points the vial in Jim's direction, “anywhere. I didn't make a mistake. I ran the tests twice, just to ensure I didn't. I can run them a third time, if you want.”

 

Waving the offer away, Jim holds his hand out for the vial. “Give that here.” He fingers the small cylinder, watching the amber liquid inside glide smoothly against the glass. The implications of McCoy's words are so profound and at the same time so devastating, Jim doesn't even know where to begin. “One dosage per crew member. Would that be enough to -?”

 

“Absolutely.” McCoy takes a sip of brandy, grimacing when he swallows. “As I said, it's highly concentrated. Remember when I told you about the list of anti-rejection drugs we had to pump into you to stop your body from rebelling against the transfusion?”

 

Jim nods. He's currently not sure he's capable of forming words.

 

“Well,” McCoy continues, “this little beauty there _comes_ with its own batch of anti-rejection stimulants added to the mix already. It's a genetic bomb, Jim. I'd have to run tests on live subjects and extrapolate, but I'm pretty sure that giving this so-called 'vaccine' to a healthy adult human is either going to kill them, or it's going to...”

 

“To turn them into me,” Jim finishes. He drops the vial onto the bed, thoughts racing.

 

“Not that there's anything wrong with being you,” McCoy says quietly, “but you do understand my concern?”

 

Of course, he does. It's their dirty, little secret, McCoy's and Jim's. Not even Spock knows. The side-effects of treating Jim's fatal brush with radiation poisoning hadn't shown up until a month into his stay at the hospital, and even then, their presence had come to light through sheer happenstance. He'd cut his hand open on the sharp edge of a pudding cup, simple as that. By the time McCoy, teasing him about his obvious clumsiness, had wiped his palm clean and readied a dermal regenerator, the cut was already closing, the skin knitting back together while Jim and McCoy both stared, open-mouthed and shocked.

 

The realization that his body wasn't quite his own anymore hadn't tumbled Jim into an existential crisis – he likes being alive, thank you very much - but it's not an experience he wishes on anyone. “Why would Starfleet Command even do something like that? It's ten kinds of unethical, and if they're distributing this widely...”

 

“We're in the middle of a war, Jim,” McCoy points out, “and correct me if I'm wrong, but that _is_ a Dreadnought Admiral Kerensky is flying around in, isn't it?” He shrugs. “Obviously, someone picked up where Marcus left off. Now, that thing I said when I came in, about doing something that might cost me my license and my post as CMO?”

 

“Yeah?” Jim asks warily.

 

“Take those damn vials and shoot them out of the next airlock. Better yet, have those crates incinerated and _then_ shoot them out into space. I don't care if Admiral Braddock himself waltzes in and orders me to do it, but I'm not giving this,” he points at the vial, “to anyone.”

 

“Bones...”

 

“In fact,” McCoy interrupts him, “let's go a step further. Warn them.”

 

Jim blinks. “Warn who?”

 

“Everyone. The colonies. Earth. Every damn ship we can reach from here. Hell, warn the entire Federation. Someone in Starfleet Command is running a genetic experiment on all of us, and the people have a right to know. They have a right to say _no_.”

 

“You can't be serious.”

 

“I'm dead serious, Jim. I've never been more serious in all my life.” McCoy levers himself out of the armchair, carries his empty glass over to the mini-bar, and pours himself another shot of brandy. His hands are shaking, Jim is surprised to see. Some of the brandy splashes onto the counter.

 

“I can't just,” Jim makes a gesture of helplessness. “There'd be a mass panic.”

 

“Better than mass _graves_ , or an army of Khans.” McCoy says acidly. His fierce expression gentles somewhat when he takes in Jim's obvious shock. “People have a right to choose,” he says. “It's bad enough that I didn't give you a choice, even if it saved your life. I'm not going to make that same mistake again. Either you warn everyone, or I will.”

 

He tosses back his drink, slams the glass on the counter, and walks out.

 

\- - -

 

_**( Jeremy Doyen,** _ **A History of Empires** **_, publication date 2595 )_ **

_'[…] The vaccinations took place between 2262 and 2265. The serum was distributed to the medical personnel at headquarters in San Francisco first, for small, controlled test runs in a stable environment, at the Academy Hospital. Without adequate proof that says otherwise, we must assume that those who the serum was first tested on were, indeed, volunteers._

 

_There is no final record that tells us how many men and women died, their immune systems unable to cope with the introduction of that foreign blood. Suffice to say, surviving hospital data archives from that time show a sudden influx of patients with similar symptoms – organ failure, cell disintegration, sudden growth of tumors and other genetic mutation, as well as broad-range immunity failure – who all died within days of being admitted. […]_

 

_History points to the crash of the USS Vengeance as the greatest catastrophe to happen on Earth in the 23 rd century, with a death tally that rose well beyond the 100,000 mark. _

 

_I beg to differ. If we count the number of deaths linked by those specific symptoms, symptoms which today can clearly be traced back to the vaccine, we arrive at a staggering 350,000 victims in San Francisco alone._

 

_The crash of the USS Vengeance was an act of revenge by an individual bent on taking as many bystanders with him as possible. It was, undoubtedly, a deplorable act, for which no excuse can be offered. Yet, no excuse can be offered for the victims of Starfleet Command's covert genetic experiment, either. Section 31 distributed the vaccine to the general public, fully aware that casualties were unavoidable, and thereby violated every principle of democracy, freedom and freedom of choice the Federation had sworn to uphold and protect. [...]'_

 

\- - -

 

It is the year 2265.

 

Jim celebrates his birthday. New Vulcan winters are tropical, even more unbearable than the long, dry, hot summers that come with desert storms and long periods without a single drop of rain; good climates for old people, bad weather for former Starfleet captains trying to get drunk. He's sweating the alcohol out faster than he can consume it, or maybe it's just his body attempting to keep him from self-harm. He has a bottle of Romulan ale, a casket of Orion wine, a cake purchased from a local bakery on a whim, and a roomful of ghosts to keep him company.

 

Spock's and Uhura's wedding is in four days. Jim doesn't know yet if he'll attend; he hasn't been good company lately, and he doesn't want to ruin what's supposed to be a happy occasion for two of his best friends. He'd rather wile the hours away here, in the tiny room allotted to him by Admiral Braddock, who runs the human colony on New Vulcan.

 

Jim feels like a ship adrift at sea without an anchor, no port in sight. Inactivity makes him restless and prone to bouts of anger and depression. Without a starship to call his own, without a mission to apply his faculties to, he is essentially useless. Braddock keeps trying to rope him into helping with the colony – God knows they're having trouble, what with new fugitives coming in almost daily – but that would mean going out and...interacting with people.

 

He prefers to keep to himself, these days. There's less of chance that he'll be recognized, that way. His photo and name were circulated widely, when the _Enterprise_ started broadcasting the truth about Section 31's 'vaccine' on every open channel Uhura could find. For a few weeks, he was hailed as a hero, a lone vigilante bent on exposing a broiling scandal at the top tiers of Starfleet Command. But then, in an act of retaliation and to smear his reputation, Section 31 circulated his medical reports and his personal file.

 

Now, when Jim chooses to go out, when he is inevitably recognized, he's not called 'hero' anymore. 'Traitor', they call him. 'First of the Reborn'. And it usually dissolves in violence, then. Jim has learned to keep his head down.

 

A sharp rap on his door interrupts his drinking binge. He's not in the mood for visitors. The sole window of his tiny room opens to New Vulcan jungle, lush, evergreen and fragrant. It's a short climb from the second floor down to the ground; he could make a run for it. Wouldn't be the first time he escaped that way.

 

A dissonant squawk of electronics and the door sliding open put an end to his contemplations. The man standing in the doorway, pocketing a multi-wire gadget with a fierce scowl, walks in and waves a hand before his face, huffing out, “Phew! Smells like a brewery in here.”

 

Jim lifts his bottle of Romulan ale in a mocking toast. “Scotty. So nice of you to break into my room. Come in – pull up a chair. I've only just started.”

 

The former Chief Engineer of the _USS Enterprise_ comes to the corner where Jim's seated at the table. He's in civilian clothes now, like Jim is, hands grease-stained, pants and shirt streaked with what Jim arbitrarily identifies as hydraulic oil. He looks around, at the unmade bed, the stacks of dishes in the kitchenette sink, the heaps of unwashed clothes on a chair in another corner.

 

“If you want to kill yourself, use a gun,” Scotty advises. “It'd be easier to clean up than this pigsty.”

 

Jim slams the bottle down. “It's my birthday. I'm entitled to be a slob.”

 

“It must be your birthday all year 'round, then.” Without further ado, Scotty grips Jim by the arm. “Come on. Bit of fresh air will do you good. Also, I got you a present. Come on, captain – up you go. There's a good lad.”

 

“Not a captain anymore,” Jim mutters. He has half a mind to stay where he is. It's still light out. People will be up and about, wandering the cramped hallways of the colony barracks; someone's bound to recognize him. But Scotty has that no-nonsense look on his face, the one that says he'll bodily drag Jim out the door if he has to, and he's pulling Jim along by the arm. “Where are we going?”

 

“Out,” Scotty says, clipped. “To the landing pad.”

 

Jim grabs a jacket from the chair before they step out into the hallway and puts it on, despite the heat. He pulls the jacket's hood up to conceal his face, ignoring Scotty's long-suffering sigh. The human colony on New Vulcan, fifty miles away from the Vulcan capital and sitting snug in a smooth dip of valley surrounded by jungle, houses roughly 5,000 people. It's a tightly packed cluster of barracks arranged around communal facilities, with a shuttle landing pad on its southern edge.

 

It's not a very long walk from where Jim's room is in one of the northernmost barracks, but he keeps his head down and concentrates on following in Scotty's wake. After the relative silence in his room, the noise of people crowding the hallways and the short stretches of open ground between barracks is deafening. The last time Jim and Braddock spoke, Braddock said they would have to expand the colony soon, or start looking for accommodations elsewhere. They're running out of space fast.

 

Scotty leads the way past the tiny hospital, the kitchens, the open warehouses where volunteers are distributing the bare-bone necessities to new arrivals who had to leave everything behind. Vaccination, to Jim's knowledge, is in its final stages on Earth. The people fleeing to the free colonies now come from the last pockets of a dwindling resistance.

 

They arrive at the landing pad. It's a circular stretch of unevenly paved ground dotted with guiding lights, ringed by low-roofed, wide hangars. They only ever see shuttles coming in these days, small, private vessels with sub-standard warp drives, hopelessly overstuffed with desperate fugitives. The days when Starfleet captains went rogue and ferried people from Earth to the various free colonies are long gone.

 

“Here we are, captain.” Scotty leads him to a hangar. “I'd have wrapped her in a bow, but we're a wee bit short on cloth at the moment, and plastic's so impractical.”

 

The air inside the hangar is positively stagnating with the stuffiness that comes from two suns baking low roofs for 16 hours a day. Jim's soaked with sweat to the bone, and pushes his hood down the moment he's certain they're out of sight. As a former Chief Engineer, Scotty holds a special status within the community: he can _repair_ things, from washing machines to coffee pots to communications relays. It grants him a few privileges, and he's claimed a hangar all for himself. The space is overflowing with spare parts salvaged from damaged shuttles and star ships.

 

There is a ship sitting in the hangar now, surrounded on all sides by metal, wires and work banks. Jim slows down as they walk closer, a tendril of excitement snaking past the cloak of apathy that surrounds him. It's not a pretty ship by any stretch of the imagination, squat and dirt-gray, like a three-part centipede without legs. The forward view port allows glimpses of a tiny, instrument-stuffed bridge with a single seat.

 

“Scotty, what...?”

 

Scotty grins at him. “Happy birthday, Jim.” He raps his knuckles against the ship's hull. “I know she's not much to look at, but I promise she's prettier on the inside. And she's fast. Not as fast as the _Enterprise_ , but there's only so much you can put into a ship this size before hull integrity becomes a problem.”

 

Jim walks forward in a daze and puts his hands against the hull. Short shuttle rides aside, he hasn't sat in a real ship for over a year. “You – you built this.” His voice sounds embarrassingly thick. He swallows. “For me?”

 

Scotty's grin is about to split his face in half. “Well, it wasn't _just_ me.”

 

The loading ramp located in the middle section of the ship lowers. Spock and Uhura come walking out, followed by Spock's father Sarek and Spock's other-dimension counterpart, Old Spock. Jim's mouth drops open. His heart feels as if it's about to burst. He teeters wildly between elevation and disbelief, and there's also a bit of shame in the turbulent mix. “You guys...”

 

Uhura hugs him. It's logistically awkward, her big belly getting in the way, but her embrace is fierce. “Happy birthday, captain.” And then, because she's Uhura, who never minces words around Jim, she adds pointedly, “You need a bath.”

 

“Indeed, you do.” Spock comes next, the hint of a smile in the corners of his mouth, eyes crinkling just so. They don't shake hands, but then, to Jim's surprise, Spock pulls him into an embrace as well. It's over in a second, but Jim's still left speechless; Spock doesn't _do_ hugs, no matter how good friends they've become over the years.

 

Spock returns to Uhura's side. “I'm afraid I won't be applying for the position as First Officer aboard your new ship, captain. My place is here, now,” he brushes two fingers against Uhura's hand, and then adds in utter seriousness, “and your ego is substantial enough to fill the bridge by itself.”

 

Jim offers his hand to Sarek, thinks better of it, and bows instead. He does clasp a hand on Old Spock's shoulder, who is more fragile-looking now than ever, his hair snow-white, but whose eyes have lost none of their sharpness. “Starfleet captains belong to the stars, Jim.” Old Spock smiles serenely, affection writ in every line and wrinkle of his face. “It is time you went back out there.”

   
Jim's throat is closing up. He's been moping and rolling in self-pity for months, and his friends have given him a _ship_. They've given him a way _out._ “I don't know what to say,” he admits, “but – _thank you_.”

 

“That's all you have to say.” Scotty stands there like a proud father, arms crossed over his chest, still grinning. “We need someone out there, to keep an eye on those damn Dreadnoughts. You'll find your new ship comes equipped with deep-space sensors that would put the best Starfleet vessel to shame. Then there's the cloaking device I nicked from that Romulan freighter – remember, two months ago? - so that gives you a bit of an advantage, too. And, finally, the cargo bay. Nice and spacious. If you come across anything interesting, I do expect you to bring it back here. You know – spare parts and the like.”

 

Jim barks out a short laugh. “Do you want me to become a smuggler, Scotty?” It's not such a bad idea, actually. He strokes a palm over the hull of the ship. It's a _very good_ idea, in fact. Why hasn't he thought of that before? Probably because smugglers need ships to carry their goods, and he didn't have one. He has a ship, now. “What's her name?”

 

“She hasn't got one, yet,” Scotty says. “I thought we'd leave that honor to the man who's going to fly her. We did have a few ideas, though.”

 

“I voted for 'Bug'.” Uhura winks. “She certainly looks the part.”

 

“Actually, the shape of the ship is more akin to an Earth insect commonly referred to as 'centipede', considering the elongated shape,” Spock begins, “whereas 'bug' would be more befitting to a rounded -”

 

Uhura, very delicately, steps on Spock's foot. Spock's mouth shuts with an audible 'clack' of teeth.

 

“Bug it is,” Jim says, and laughs.

 

\- - -

 

_**( Jeremy Doyen,** _ **A History of Empires** **_, publication date 2595 )_ **

_'Admiral Susan Kerensky died at the age of 56, while undergoing the 'vaccination', in August 2265. She was replaced, not by yet another Section 31 contributor or former Starfleet Admiral, but by the civilian David Nguyen, former mayor of San Francisco._

 

_Mr. Nguyen's first official act of office was to formally dissolve Starfleet Command and thus destroy the very organization he was supposed to represent, and in its place erect the First Reborn Council. It was, in hindsight, a mere change of name that kept the previous structure of hierarchies in place but usurped the positions of those Mr. Nguyen suspected would become threats to San Francisco's now almost entirely 'reborn' population, Nguyen himself being one of them._

 

_In an act that is now widely viewed as disproportionate savagery, Starfleet members in positions of power, who had up to then remained loyal to their chain of command, and in many cases even successfully undergone the vaccination, were imprisoned. Some escaped with the aid of friends and family, but the majority were summarily executed._

 

_We can now no longer determine if the events in San Francisco set an example for other cities across the planet to engage in similar acts of replacing hitherto intact authorial structures, or if there were other, perhaps even more sinister forces at work – a form of 'blood bond', as some of the more esoteric studies of that period suggest ( see:_ **Blood calls to Blood** _**, Ellen Rains** ). Whatever the cause, by October 2265, every major city on Earth was in Reborn hands.'_


	2. TWO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that the 'outside information' scenes - both the excerpts from the book and the ones following Admiral Kerensky ( and others ) - are not in chronological order _on purpose_.

\- - -

 

**CHAPTER TWO**

 

\- - -

 

It is the year 2269. 

 

Jim's on his way back to New Vulcan, the _Bug's_ cargo bay stacked with crates of dried food stuffs he traded for with a minor sub-group of the Orion Syndicate. He's in a good mood, and for once looking forward to spending a few days at the colony. T'sha's birthday is in a week, so that means family dinners and play time with his goddaughter at Spock's and Uhura's house in the Vulcan capital. Scotty's been making noises about recalibrating the _Bug's_ engine to tickle a little more speed out of her, and Sulu's been eying Jim's ship with intent, ever since his marriage fell apart. 

 

Jim isn't sure yet how he feels about squeezing another chair into the _Bug's_ tiny bridge – he's been flying alone for four years now – but he's willing to give it a go, if Sulu is. Maybe it would actually be nice to have some company, for a change. It'd certainly save Jim from loading the cargo bay by himself, all the time. 

 

He catches a few hours of shut-eye, hiding in a nebula on the edge of the Romulan zone, when the _Bug's_ deep-space sensors pick up the trace signature of another ship. Though not immediately worried, Jim hurries from his quarters to the bridge, silencing the penetrating alarm klaxon that yanked him out of sleep unceremoniously. 

 

The Romulans and the Reborn seem to have reached an odd consensus where one party pretends the other doesn't exist. Skirmishes, as far as Jim can tell, are restricted to the odd flexing of metaphorical muscles, when a Reborn ship travels too far into the Romulan sector, and vice versa. Jim's been sticking to the narrow band of space that defines the neutral zone between the Romulan and the Reborn Empires, and so far, the Romulans seem content to ignore him when their ships pass by in the vicinity. 

 

But it's not a Romulan ship that drops out of warp almost on top of the _Bug_. “Shit, shit, shit,” Jim curses, staring out the forward view port at the Dreadnought that hovers close enough for him to see the individual nuts and bolts of the other ship's hull plating. The _Bug_ is cloaked, but in four years of traversing the smuggling routes, Jim's never _really_ had to put the Romulan cloaking device to the test. He's made it a policy to be gone, the second a Reborn ship appears on his diagnostics screens, and chooses routes that keep him as far away from Earth as possible. “C'mon, nothing to see here, move on...”

 

Jim trails off as he takes another, closer look at the Dreadnought. He's seen dozens of them by now, but never one in quite such a bad shape. The bow and the visible part of the nacelles look as though they've taken heavy fire. Some of the craters are still red-lit where the metal alloys are molten in the shape of impact craters. As he watches, there's a small explosion starboard-side, sending chunks of black metal plating careening into space. 

 

The sight isn't as satisfying as one might assume. It's either all of nothing, for these ships: Jim can't rely on the assumption that the Dreadnought is damaged so heavily her captain can't still vaporize him. But with an enormous portion of luck, they'll overlook him. They might just be too busy running diagnostics and organizing repairs. His ship truly is a bug, compared to the gigantic bulk of the other ship, and he activated the cloak before he went to bed. It doesn't turn the _Bug_ entirely invisible to all sensors, but _maybe_ \- 

 

A melodious 'ding' calls up a small transmission window on the _Bug's_ forward view port. Jim's pulse begins to hammer in his ears. Today isn't his lucky day. They've seen him. 

 

He accepts the incoming transmission, because there isn't much else he can do. He can't hope to outrun a Dreadnought, not even at warp – and if he's going to die today, he won't die a coward's death, shot in the back while he's flying away. 

 

The transmission screen engages. Framed by the dull background of the Dreadnought's bridge, the face and upper body of a woman fill Jim's forward view port. 

 

Jim physically recoils in the pilot seat, shocked by what he sees. 

 

The woman is in very bad shape. She's thin as a rail. Her cheeks are so sunken the lips pull away from her teeth, turning what once might have been a very attractive face into a death mask. She has dark skin, almond-shaped eyes that suggest an Asian influence in her heritage, and close-cropped, tightly curled hair. Leaning on one elbow on the armrest of the Dreadnought's command chair, she looks a step away from succumbing to malnutrition. Her black eyes, though, are clear and sharp. 

 

They stare at each other. Finally, the woman asks in a scratchy, barely-there voice, “Are you a Reborn?”

 

Numbly, Jim shakes his head. “No.” He's probably being impolite, but he can't look away. There's something attached to the side of the woman's neck that looks like a medical sensor patch, with an end of torn wire dangling down to her shoulder. He was expecting a Reborn captain, regal in a dark gray uniform, not this wreck of a human being, and his mind is racing with a thousand questions. Is she a fugitive? Is she alone? Dreadnoughts, Jim knows, can be operated by a single person – but the woman looks too weak to _walk_ anywhere on her own, much less pilot that monster of a warship. “Who are you? Why -”

 

“No time,” the woman murmurs. As she looks to the side and down, ostensibly at the controls in the armrest of the command chair, a thin stream of smoke drifts past the screen. She coughs, thin frame shaking. “Take him and _go_. I'm being pursued. They'll be here any minute.”

 

They? Him? Jim's about to ask what the hell she's talking about when he's distracted by the sound of electronic birdsong and flashes of gold light somewhere behind him. Something's being beamed onto the _Bug_. “Hey, wait a damn second!” He's half out of the pilot seat, cursing, fumbling for the phaser gun strapped to his belt. His hand comes up empty – he must have left the gun in his quarters when he ran to the bridge a few minutes ago. Wonderful. “What are you sending -”

 

“ _Go_ ,” the woman repeats, intently. Somewhere on the Dreadnought's bridge, a thin alarm siren begins to wail, and light begins to flash, painting the woman and the command chair she sits in in flashes of bright red. “I've disabled the reactor cooling system. This ship's about to blow. You want to be far away when it does.”

 

Jim reverses direction mid-step and throws himself back into the pilot seat. He's operating on automatic, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, the woman's matter-of-fact words sounding as death knells. He's seen Dreadnoughts explode – warp cores overloaded by their own captains to evade capture, under fire from Klingon War Birds – and knows the sheer size of them tends to take any other ships in the vicinity down with them, when they go. 

 

“Good bye,” the woman says. 

 

The last Jim ever sees of her and the Dreadnought she came in is the blue circle of the warp drive, sitting center-front like a diabolical eye, collapsing in an explosion of brilliant white light. The _Bug's_ engines whine in protest when Jim engages the warp drive out of neutral, his ship rattling around him. He shoots past the Dreadnought, into the blue channel of warp speed. 

 

Then he sits, stunned, in the pilot seat, wondering what the hell just happened. His hands are shaking. The diagnostic screens of the _Bug_ show him he's headed for New Vulcan on the course he set before sleep called to him. Jim feels cold all over, jittery with adrenaline; _that_ , he decides, was just surreal. 

 

But it wasn't a dream. A sibilant hiss sounds behind him, like air over teeth.

 

He levers himself out of the seat, gazing with mounting trepidation into the short corridor that leads from the _Bug's_ bridge to his quarters and the moderately sized room that serves as lounge/living room/mess/med bay. The lights are set to a dim 30%, but Jim can see the sprawled form that lies in the corridor – right between the bridge and Jim's quarters, where he left his phaser. 

 

 _Take him and go_.

 

Whatever, whoever the nameless woman beamed over isn't moving. “Lights, 100%,” Jim says softly, casting about furtively for a weapon, anything to defend himself with. He's good at hand-to-hand combat, better now than ever before, but for all he knows that's a Gorn lying there, and he isn't sure how well he'd fare against a goddamn, 6'4 _lizard_ with shark teeth. 

 

The pair of naked feet pointed in Jim's direction belie the assumption of his unwanted guest being a reptile. They look decidedly human. Cautiously, Jim moves to the bridge door to get a better view. “Hello?” It's a man, dressed in a black standard Starfleet uniform _, sans_ boots. He's lying in an ungainly sprawl, one arm bent awkwardly against the corridor wall. Jim frowns as he sees the man is lying in a puddle of liquid. Water? Piss? He takes another step closer. “Hey. Who are -”

 

The man groans, belly-deep, and unfolds. The bending of his limbs is accompanied by faint crackling noises, like paper being scrunched up, and the squeak of a sole over wet metal. He sits up, slumping forward over bent legs, black hair clinging wetly to his skull, a tangled, drippy mess. One long-fingered hand comes up, pawing at the strands of hair straggling over eyes narrowed in pain. 

 

Jim really wishes he had his phaser gun, now. Right now. 

 

Lacking that, Jim takes a long step forward and kicks Khan Noonien Singh in the face. 

 

The force of the kick sends Khan sliding several feet down the corridor, head snapping back, leaving a large trail of water, arms flailing as he searches for purchase on the floor and the smooth corridor walls. His movement is sluggish, uncoordinated, lacking the deadly grace and strength he had when Jim first met him. He pulls his limbs in toward his center, an instinctual reaction to protect vital organs, one arm up and folded over his head, and ends up as a tight ball on the floor. 

 

Jim, ready to deliver another kick, hesitates at the sight. It's enough of a pause to give his brain time to catch up. Everything in him _screams_ to get close and finish Khan off while he still can, but the sight of him huddling there on the floor like a wounded animal gone to ground is so strange, so _not-Khan_ , that it stalls Jim. 

 

Khan isn't defending himself. He doesn't even look like he's capable of speech. Chin tucked down toward his chest, he's just lying there, dripping water, eyes tightly shut. 

 

As if he was just pulled out of cryo-sleep. He most likely was – Jim gazes down at the trail of water along the floor – and apparently not even genetically engineered supermen can come away from that entirely unaffected. Dimly, Jim remembers a snatch of conversation from a lifetime ago, about cryogenic sequences and how 300-year-old frozen people could die if they aren't woken properly. 

 

Khan doesn't look like he was woken properly.

 

And, damn it, Jim's not a monster. He wishes he was, to have that bit of extra callousness that allows others to finish an opponent who's already down – but he isn't. The sting of pity the sight of Khan produces is unwelcome, but it won't be ignored. 

 

“Khan,” Jim barks. Khan unfolds just enough to fasten a myopic, entirely unfocused gaze on him. He's bleeding from a large gash across his lips, which are tinged a faint blue. There's no sign that he recognizes Jim at all, but Jim remembers that moment on the Dreadnought bridge, ten years ago, when Khan played possum, and he keeps a safe distance. “What the _fuck_ are you doing on my ship?”

 

What he really wants to ask is, _why the fuck are you still alive?_ Jim always assumed Khan and his people had been used up in the creation of the vaccine. In his more sadistic moments, he'd even prayed they were – the Reborn by themselves were bad enough, but the Reborn with Khan's special brand of twisted savagery behind them? That had been nightmare fuel, right there. 

 

Khan's gaze clears the tiniest bit. The tip of his tongue snakes out past his torn lips, licking some of the blood away. “C-ca,” he croaks, teeth chattering, and then coughs long and hard, water dripping from the corner of his mouth. He's shaking all over. 

 

'Captain'? Or 'cold'? “Fuck,” Jim mutters, rolling his eyes heavenward. Damn his soft heart. “I'm going to come over there, okay? If you attack me, I'll kick you again. So don't attack me.” He's babbling, and he knows it. Jim isn't _afraid_ of Khan, but he has a healthy amount of respect for the damage the other man can do – could do, ten years ago. Khan doesn't look like he could swat a fly away, at the moment. And Jim – Jim has Khan's blood now. Or was healed by Khan's blood, or whatever, and that has to count for something. It doesn't make them blood brothers, heavens forbid, but maybe it's enough to even the odds, just a little, in a fight. 

 

Jim walks around the still-coughing man and bends to pull him up from the floor. That's the plan, at least – instead, with a yelp of shock, Jim drops Khan almost instantaneously. “Fuck!” Ice-cold water is soaking through the front off Jim's shirt and the knees of his pants, cutting his breath short. Khan utters a low moan of agony, curling up again. 

 

Not freezing – still _thawing_ , more like. 

 

Right, then. Drastic measures are in order.

 

Jim wants answers. No, fuck that: what he wants is to turn back time a few hours and go to sleep somewhere else. Anywhere else but that particular spot in the nebula in the Romulan neutral zone, where the Dreadnought just happened to come across him. Since that's not going to happen, he's going to have to deal with the situation at hand. It would be the easiest thing in the world to drag Khan to the airlock in the back of the _Bug_ and get rid of him that way – and the bastard would deserve it - but Jim _still_ isn't a monster. 

 

He shoves his hands under Khan's arms, ignoring the way his fingers go almost immediately numb from the cold, and drags him further down the corridor to the tiny bathroom next to his quarters. There's barely enough room to maneuver Khan into the corner and to the shallow dip in the floor there that serves as the shower drain. Khan isn't helping, all stiff legs and flopping arms, but Jim finally gets him situated just right. 

 

“That's going to sting,” Jim warns, reaching up for the push button of the shower. He's not sure if Khan even understands him. Short of piling a ton of blankets on the other man, Jim doesn't know what else to do. The _Bug_ does have a med bay, with a cranky but working med-bot, but Jim's never had to use that. He doesn't know if the med-bot has a 'thaw' setting, and no time to figure it out. 

 

Stomach-turning images of Khan exploding into a tiny million frozen pieces under the hot spray of water dancing before his eyes, he wedges them both into the corner and hits the button. 

 

Khan's immediate reaction is a loud howl. He goes from half-frozen Popsicle to squirming snake in the space of a second, cursing in a language Jim isn't familiar with. Doesn't take a linguistics expert to work out the gist of the torrent of words that pours out of his mouth, though. “You're welcome,” Jim says dryly, concentrating on holding him down. “Behave, and there might just be a towel for you, after this.”

 

After a few minutes, Khan finally stops struggling. “I'm going to _end_ you,” he mutters, the effect somewhat spoiled by his overall soggy state and his still-chattering teeth. 

 

Jim sighs. _That's_ the Khan he remembers. “You sure haven't changed.”

 

Khan's mouth opens and closes. It's as if he's only _now_ really seeing Jim, and the change that comes over him is fascinating. He stops squirming, turns into a statue, staring up at Jim through narrowed eyes. The water that's still pouring down on them both doesn't seem to bother him anymore. 

 

“You,” he whispers. A world of pain lies promised in that single word. 

 

Gingerly, Jim reaches up to shut off the water. “Look. I'm about as happy to see you as you're undoubtedly happy to see me. But can we wait with the posturing and the killing until we're dry and I'm _marginally_ sure we're not being pursued?”

 

Khan's eyebrows draw together in a frown. His gaze flicks over the interior of the small bathroom – utilitarian, simple, just a shower in one corner, a toilet in the other next to a sink with a simple mirror above it – and back to Jim, settling there with scorching, single-minded intensity. “You,” he says softly, “killed my people.”

 

That's all the warning Jim gets. Khan unfolds like a striking snake, without a trace of his earlier sluggishness. Jim doesn't have time to protest, to tell Khan his crew are very much alive – or _were_ , at least, before Admiral Fucking Kerensky discovered the potential of that genetically engineered blood. He flails for balance as they slide over the wet bathroom floor, cracks his head against the lip of the shower basin. 

 

Khan doesn't bother with finesse. He crawls up over Jim's prone body, face a rigid mask of hate. Jim manages to get a knee between them, hoping to lever Khan off and to the side, but panics instead when he realizes what the other man is about to do: fingers claw into Jim's hair, the heels of Khan's palms are pressing against his temples. The wet, black shirt clinging to Khan's chest and arms show the flex of long muscles - 

 

He'll crush Jim's head like an egg. He'll kill Jim like he killed Marcus. 

 

Desperation lends Jim strength. His knee is still between them, hard against Khan's belly. With a hoarse shout of panic, _feeling_ the bones of his skull shift and _give_ , Jim slams both hands against Khan's chest and twists wildly onto his side, heaving Khan off of him with all the strength he has. 

 

Which is a lot. 

 

It's enough to send Khan flying, strands of Jim's hair between his clenched fingers. He crashes into the wall between sink and toilet, thrown like a rag doll. He leaves a _dent_ in the wall, the force of the impact sending vibrations along the bathroom floor that Jim feels where he's lying. 

 

Stunned, Khan stares at him. 

 

They lie like mirror images. Blood trickles down the side of Khan's face from his tooth-torn lip, bright scarlet against the pallor of his skin. Blood trickles down the side of Jim's head, where it feels as though Khan partially scalped him. 

 

The moment passes. Dull rage clouds Khan's eyes once more. 

 

Jim shouts, “Stop!” He pushes himself up, back to his knees, and brings both hands up, palms out in a warding gesture. “Khan, stop. I – _we_ didn't kill your people.” 

 

That buys him a second's hesitation – and an odd, fleeting expression on Khan's face that is so _hopeful_ that it clenches something in Jim's chest. He'd ended up doubting everything about Khan, back then, except the man's relentless focus on his 'family'. By now, Jim knows what it feels like to lose the people that mean the world to you. Christopher Pike had only been the beginning. 

 

Already, Khan regains control over the emotional slip. “Lies,” he snarls. He scrabbles until he's upright, on hands and knees like a predatory animal about to launch itself at its prey. “Your First Officer -”

 

“- beamed over the _torpedoes_.” Palms still up, Jim recalls his own surprise when the _Enterprise_ shook under the shock waves of the explosions ripping the _Vengeance_ apart. “Just the torpedoes. Spock didn't kill your people.” He doesn't add that Khan had _deserved_ going up in flames. The vulnerability that shows on the other man's face is gut-wrenching, even if it only last for another few seconds. It's as if Khan is trying to force himself to _not_ believe Jim's words. 

 

The emotionless mask slides back into place. Khan sits back on his heels, staring down the length of his nose at Jim. “Where are they?”

 

\- - -

 

_It's bitterly cold in the vault. Braddock wishes he'd brought a coat, or that he'd never come here in the first place. Cold Storage Facility #2 is one of a half-dozen similar triple-security institutions scattered over the globe. Few people even know these places exist, and fewer know where they are located. It would be easier, not to mention less costly, to execute the men and women serving long prison sentences in these Cold Storage facilities, but in recent decades the image of the peaceful, space-faring explorers Starfleet Command projected to potential new allies allowed less and less room for an actively executed death penalty._

 

_Braddock isn't so sure Starfleet's, and by extension the Federation's, reputation would suffer, if the individuals incarcerated in these vaults were to be executed. The scum of the Earth sleeps in the orderly arranged cryo-tubes lining the dome-like halls under dull lights. There are murderers, rapists, child molesters, but also scientists, brilliant and resourceful, warlords from the less civilized corners of the planet: all beyond any chance of rehabilitation and simply too dangerous to be allowed their freedom, even behind prison bars or on faraway planets, in the penal colonies._

 

_And honestly, there are several other Federation members who practice the death penalty._

 

_An impatient-sounding voice penetrates his thoughts. 'We're almost there. Do keep up, please.'_

 

_In front of Braddock, Admiral Kerensky strides past the cryo-tubes and their frozen occupants, lab coat flapping behind her, her flat heels creating an irritating staccato sound Braddock finds more and more unnerving the longer he follow her into the bowels of Cold Storage Facility #2._

 

_She leads him through an arched doorway to a corridor that branches off from the main storage halls. They arrive at a large, reinforced door, massive and forbidding. A complex series of electronic and mechanical locks protects the planet from the people sleeping behind the door._

 

_Braddock comes to an abrupt stop. 'You can't be serious.'_

 

_Kerensky turns and watches him like a mother her misbehaving child. 'We're running out of blood.'_

 

 _No. Just no. Braddock is going to put his foot down, about this. 'You told me you managed to synthesize the serum,' he accuses, equal parts angry and nervous. He knows exactly who lies frozen behind this door. 'Even if you didn't, I cannot authorize anyone to open this door. Susan, are you_ insane _?'_

 

 _'Are you?' Kerensky frowns at him. 'We have the synthesized serum from_ one _of them. Can you imagine the possibilities that wait behind this door? The slightest difference in chemical makeup could mean a world of difference. It's untapped potential.'_

 

 _She_ is _insane, quite likely. The 73 individuals behind the door are, in Braddock's opinion, bombs waiting to detonate. Kerensky must have forgotten what just_ one _of them managed to destroy, on his own. Staring at the diminutive woman staring back at him as though he's a recalcitrant idiot, Braddock wonders for the first time if Kerensky herself wouldn't be better off behind a door such as this one._

 

_His resolve firms. 'No. Request denied.'_

 

 _Kerensky rolls her eyes. 'We wouldn't be waking them. We can keep them in induced comas, draw the amount of blood we need, and freeze them back up. Honestly, I don't see the problem. These men and women are war criminals from a time long past. I doubt anyone even remembers their names.' She lowers her voice to a conspirator's whisper. 'We can start on the vaccinations next month. The_ Skyward _is in the final stages of completion. Things are going our way, Tony. Don't hamper us now.'_

 

 _She raps her knuckles against the door. 'Besides, it's time these ladies and gentlemen here start_ contributing _, don't you think?'_

 

\- - - 

 

The first thing Jim does when he gets back to the _Bug's_ bridge is to alter the course. Flying to New Vulcan with Khan on board is a massively bad idea, even if Jim hasn't got the slightest idea what else to do with him. Plotting a new destination that will take the _Bug_ and its two passengers on a long curve past New Vulcan and then toward the narrow strip of space between what's left of the Klingon Empire and the Romulan neutral zone, he then sets the deep-space sensors to cast the widest net possible, and drops them out of warp to re-engage the cloaking device. 

 

Then he swivels in the pilot seat, staring down the corridor. Khan is in the _Bug's_ mess/lounge, with a blanket and a PADD, and it's eerily quiet on board. The faint worry that Khan will take the PADD apart and build a death ray out of the remains, or disassemble the ratty couch Jim lugged on board as a personal joke several months ago and use the old-fashioned coils as propulsion units for a crude gun, sits like a tick under Jim's skin. 

 

They'd moved out of the bathroom like wary cats, keeping a nice, solid five feet or so of space between them. Khan had stripped out of his sopping wet clothes unceremoniously and accepted the blanket Jim tossed him, catching the PADD with his free hand. He hadn't commented on Jim's strength, or on the fact that the patches of red, irritated skin where he'd yanked out clumps of Jim's hair were already looking less irritated. 

 

Jim hadn't commented on Khan's already healed lip, either.

 

 _Stalemate_ , Jim thinks. 

 

It's not quite accurate – they've arrived at an unspoken cease-fire, a tacitly agreed lull in violence. Khan has ten years to catch up on, and Jim wasn't joking when he told him he had to alter the course. He hasn't told Khan _why_ , but the man had already been absorbed by the information on the PADD, by the abbreviated explanation of how he'd ended up on the _Bug_ in the first place, and paid no attention when Jim edged toward the door. 

 

 _Is it really such a good idea to let him know what happened?_ The voice in Jim's head sounds suspiciously like Spock's. 

 

It probably isn't. In fact, Jim's almost sure it isn't. Ten years ago, Khan had been positively maniacal in his attempt to retrieve his people from the clutches of Admiral Marcus. When his plan failed, he'd crashed the _USS Vengeance_ into the San Francisco bay in a last-ditch effort to do damage. In retrospect, Jim suspects Khan never intended to walk away from that last, horrible act. 

 

And then there's that whole bit where Khan Noonien Singh ruled a quarter of Earth, at one point in long-ago history, and Jim _had_ watched the recording of Spock's conversation with Khan, when they negotiated the terms of beaming the 72 cryo-tubes to the _Vengeance_. 

 

 _...which involves, as I understand it, the mass genocide of any being you find to be less than superior._

 

There's an entire _planet_ now of beings Khan should find adequately superior, and isn't that a happy thought? 

 

Quietly, Jim pushes himself out of the chair. On silent feet, he walks from the bridge to the back of the _Bug_ , past the still-wet bathroom with its puddles of water and strands of Jim's hair on the floor. 

 

“I can hear you, captain.”

 

Jim turns the corner at the end of the corridor, steps through the doorway, and finds Khan sitting where he left him: on one of the high-backed chairs next to the synthesizer/replicator unit in the far corner. PADD in hand, the blanket bunched untidily around his hips, Khan sits like he stands, all stiff lines and perfect posture. 

 

He graces Jim with a short look that reveals nothing of what's going on behind the pale brow. If he takes note of the phaser gun, he doesn't show if it bothers him or not. “You mentioned a woman. What did she look like?”

 

Horrible. Starved. Maltreated. Like she'd escaped some madman's laboratory by the skin of her teeth, and the more Jim thinks about it, the more he's convinced that's actually the truth. It doesn't take a genius to figure out the rest – the woman either was a Reborn intent on escaping the Empire, or more likely, a member of Khan's crew. Why else would she have bothered to lug a frozen man around on a stolen Dreadnought, while fleeing for her life? Considering the efforts Starfleet Command has gone to, to conceal the nature of the _Vengeance_ crash, Jim doubts any of the 'common' Reborn on Earth even know Khan's name, much less the true origin of their wonder-vaccine. 

 

But that opens a whole other can of worms, doesn't it? Someone on Earth has wakened Khan's crew, or at least one of them. 

 

Khan cocks his head at Jim. “Captain?”

 

“Not a captain anymore,” Jim says automatically, refocusing on the problem at hand. He has only seen the woman for about two minutes, but she left an impression. “Dark skin, black eyes, black, short hair. Almond eyes.” Carefully, he asks, “One of yours?”

 

Khan gives a short nod. “Her name was Ann. One of the few women our creators deemed worthy.”

 

“I'm...” 'Sorry' doesn't quite cut it. Jim doesn't know what he feels. Even if Khan was the worst of the lot, his crew had done their own share of damage, 300 years ago. There's no way Jim can condone those actions, but at the same time he can't help feeling...not admiration. Grudging respect, perhaps. Ann saved Khan at the cost of her own life; that takes dedication, loyalty. Self-sacrifice, and Jim knows all about that, doesn't he? Lamely, he settles on, “It was fast. She didn't suffer.”

 

Khan doesn't deign to comment on that. He gazes at the PADD in his hand, falling silent and still. 

 

That leaves Jim at a loss. What _is_ he going to do with Khan? And what is _Khan_ going to do? 

 

A faint ' _ding_ ' penetrates the leaden silence in the lounge. Incoming transmission. “I'll just go,” Jim waves a hand in the direction of the bridge. When Khan shows no reaction, he shrugs inwardly and goes, figuring that if Khan didn't attack him when he was on the bridge earlier, he isn't going to attack Jim, now. It's a thin hope to cling to, but he can hardly spend every minute watching Khan, not without putting himself and the ship at risk. Space isn't the play sandbox it used to be. 

 

Maybe it never was.

 

Jim settles in the pilot seat, calling up the waiting transmission. It's an open-channel broadcast sent over the relay station on Starbase 234, the watch post located between the Celendi and Azure Nebulas, that bit of space where the imaginary lines between the Romulan, the Klingon and the Reborn Empire converge into a triangle. The starbase itself is abandoned now, of course, but some of the tech is still working. The free colonies on New Vulcan and Tandar use it all the time to stay in touch. 

 

Static fills the bridge of the _Bug_. Fiddling with the volume control, Jim wonders if his ship's receivers just snapped up a bit of random noise, as it sometimes happens. The relay stations can be notoriously unreliable, especially once warp-speed travel and time distortion come into play. 

 

Then, amid the crackle and the hiss, a man's voice: “- olony of New Vu – security compromised – attack this evening - repeat: do not -”

 

The message breaks off there. A bit of static continues to hiss over the speakers, then it's silent. Dead silent.

 

\- - -

 

 _The woman fights as if she's possessed. It's magnificent to behold; it will be_ glorious _to see others fight with that same determination, that strength and abnormally fast speed._

 

 _Susan Kerensky judged that starting on one of the female crew members would be easier for all involved. She's read up on the history of the Augments; the vague information that made it into the 23 rd century is all focused on the _male _genetically engineered super-soldiers. Women were footnotes, more often mentioned as the lovers or lackeys of the tyrants that ruled Earth. There were no heroic tales of_ female _Augments conquering a continent or enslaving a city._

 

_Pity, that._

 

_Not that it's any different today. For all the talk about equality and careers based on talent rather than gender, Kerensky can count the female Starfleet officers who made it to captain on the fingers of her own two hands. She herself is one of two female admirals, and she'd had to claw her way to the top, past prejudice and embarrassing, metaphorical pats on the head from well-meaning male colleagues._

 

_But she's at the top now. Starfleet Command looks at her with equal parts admiration and trepidation. Doctor Leonard McCoy may have brought Jim Kirk back from the dead and set the cornerstone with his initial experiments on that potent, fascinating blood, but it's Susan Kerensky who perfected it, made it fit for distribution._

 

_She cares little if she'll go down in history as a legend, or what they'll say about her gender when the war is over. Fame is only good as long as it opens doors and acquires funds._

 

 _What Susan cares about is Earth, and the woman thrashing on the other side of the observation port, a sister though she may be, is a means to ensure Earth's status as a recognized and_ respected _power in the galaxy._

 

 _Susan slaps her hand down on the intercom. 'For god's sake, restrain her already.' One of the four scientists working under her command lies in a corner of the observation room, his neck bent at an unnatural angle. The other three have a hard time dealing with the dark-skinned fury raging in their midst; Susan_ warned _them about keeping the sedation levels stable, but did they listen? Of course not. 'I'll give this another minute. If you haven't subdued her by then, I'll have the chamber flooded with gas.'_

 

_She doesn't specify whether the effects of the gas will be benign in the short run, or fatal, but her announcement has the desired effect: one of the junior scientists, an eager-to-please puppy trying to have his share of the glory by riding on Susan's coat tails, jabs a hypo-spray into the struggling woman's neck._

 

_For a moment, the woman's black eyes meet Susan's through the circular observation port. A cold shudder runs down Susan's spine. She's seen rabid animals with kinder eyes._

 

\- - -

 

The _Bug_ drops out of warp speed a safe distance away from New Vulcan space. The sensors aren't picking up anything out of the ordinary, but Jim still engages the ship's cloak. He's moving mechanically, driven half to hyperventilation by the anguish that sits under his breastbone like a nugget of liquid fire. Over and over, the transmission replays in his mind, the words 'colony of New Vulcan' and 'security compromised' bouncing between his ears like the ball in an ancient pinball machine. 

 

A tiny, rational part of him insists it was only a matter of time until the Reborn turned their attention to the free colonies. The war with the Klingons isn't over yet, but it just won't do for the newly minted 'Empire' to let slip a few thousand fugitives, most of whom have settled on planets that aren't that far removed from Earth. 

 

Jim tells that tiny part of himself to go to hell. New Vulcan hangs in the black, star-dotted tapestry of space like a sand-colored ball. From this distance, it looks peaceful enough. The scanners still aren't picking up the telltale warp signatures of Dreadnoughts, but Jim's approaching the planet from the _other_ side the Reborn would have approached New Vulcan from. 

 

He sets a course that will bring the _Bug_ closer to New Vulcan's orbit. 

 

“This isn't wise,” Khan remarks. He's been standing in a corner of the bridge since Jim abruptly plunged them into warp speed an hour ago. Blanket wrapped around him like a makeshift toga, he critically eyes the planet they're approaching. 

 

“Shut up,” Jim mutters.

 

“New Vulcan's soil contains enough metals to throw off the long-range sensors.” Khan crosses his arms, gazing down at the console he stands next to. “The enemy ships could be hiding on the other side of the planet.”

 

“ _Shut up_.” 

 

Jim doesn't want to hear about enemy ships. He doesn't even care that Khan is using the _Bug's_ computers to analyze the metal content of soil, something that under different circumstances would have Jim going up the barricades in a second. He wants to get close enough to New Vulcan to send a transmission to the human colony there without having to rely on relay stations. Unfortunately, the _Bug_ doesn't nearly have the same communication capabilities larger ships have; he'll have to get fairly close. 

 

Khan walks off the bridge without another word. 

 

Jim pays him no attention. It can't be a coincidence that a Dreadnought carrying two 300-year-old Augments just _happened_ to cross his path, that chance meeting followed by a transmission that New Vulcan – or at least the human colony – has come under some sort of attack. What if, in their anger over losing not only one of their ships but also two of their test subjects, the Reborn had turned on New Vulcan in an act of revenge? The _Bug_ hadn't been anywhere near Vulcan space when Ann dropped the stolen Dreadnought almost on top of him, but the colony there is by far the most prominent in the Alpha Quadrant; the Reborn _must_ know it's there. 

 

All the guesswork in the world isn't going to be of any use to Jim now. New Vulcan looms closer and closer through the forward view port, the impression of it being a lifeless ball of sand undone by the vast stretches of green lining the continents. The _Bug_ rattles as she eases into the atmosphere, and then rattles again once the clouds dissolve and the land welcomes the ship with a strong wind. 

 

 _Summer_ , Jim thinks, disconnectedly. He set out a month ago for his trip to Orion, when the typical summer storms had been but mild breezes through the jungle surrounding the human colony. 

 

In the distance, a thin plume of smoke rises on the horizon. 

 

Jim sends the transmission he prepared: a non-verbal handshake offered to the colony's communication station and the New Vulcan Council in the capital. His belly clenches when he's met with silence; his signal isn't vanishing into thin air, but no one's answering it, either. 

 

God, the Vulcans. 10,000 of them left, maybe a few hundred more located on other planets. If the Reborn attacked the capital - 

 

Jim thinks about Spock, about Uhura and T'sha. He feels as though he's about to throw up. 

 

It's not the Vulcan capital that burns, though. 

 

The human colony has spread in recent years, encroaching on the jungle past the valley where the original buildings had been erected in a rough circle. It's a small town now, with a decent infrastructure. There is a hospital, a school, community centers, market places; the barracks Jim spent so much time in have given way to spacier, more comfortable accommodations. Only the landing pad remains largely unaltered, though it did spawn a smaller strip of paved ground for the land shuttles, to ferry people back and forth between the Vulcan capital and the colony. 

 

Jim takes the _Bug_ in a tight circle around the valley. The wind comes harder now, fanning the flames still licking around the edges of the impact craters of torpedo fire. It's a devastating sight, and Jim doesn't want to believe it, but the evidence of a recent attack is plain to see. The school, erected only a few years ago, is a smoldering ruin. Nothing remains of the central market and its large warehouses but a few scorched walls and smoking pieces of debris. 

 

There are grotesque shapes between the wreckage, barely recognizable as human beings, blackened and burnt. Jim doesn't look at these too closely. He can barely bring himself to look at the remains of the colony, and draws the _Bug_ up to a higher altitude as he completes another circle. Some of the outlying buildings, especially toward the west, look like they haven't taken much damage. 

 

There might be survivors. 

 

He directs the _Bug_ to the landing pad. 

 

A transmission screen pops up on the forward view port just as the ship touches down. Barely daring to hope, Jim answers the call. 

 

He releases a breath he didn't realize he has been holding in. “Spock!” His friend's face fills the screen – the best sight Jim has seen all day. “I thought – god, I'm glad to see you.”

 

“Likewise, Jim.” Past Spock's shoulder, Jim can see parts of Vulcan interior architecture. In the background, he hears someone shouting who _might_ be Scotty. “I apologize for not answering your call earlier, but we have an influx of fugitives to look after, and many wounded to care for.”

 

There _are_ survivors. Jim sinks back in the pilot seat, tension draining from him so fast it leaves him feeling queasy. “What the hell happened here?”

 

“The human colony came under attack from a small fleet of Dreadnoughts, roughly two hours ago.”

 

“Are you all right? What about Uhura? And T'sha?”

 

“They are fine. I am likewise uninjured. Mr. Scot and Mr. Sulu both came out of the attack with minor superficial wounds, but they are already engaged in the effort to aid other survivors. The Reborn never came within phaser range of the capital, and...” Spock trails off. He's looking at something past Jim, blinking as though he means to clear his eyes. 

 

Jim looks over his shoulder. He has all but forgotten about Khan, but now the man stands in the doorway to the bridge, clad in the pants and shirt he wore earlier. The look on his face is one of icy contempt.

 

“Captain -” Spock says, alarmed.

 

“It's...” It's not fine, but Khan is the least of Jim's worries, at the moment. “It's a long story. It can wait.” Jim turns back to the view port. “I'm having trouble making out anything on the sensors. Are the Dreadnoughts gone from Vulcan space?”

 

Spock refocuses on Jim with visible difficulty. “They are.”

 

“Then I'm on my way to the capital. Meet you at the bridge.” The Vulcan capital, resting atop a natural stone plateau that sticks out of the surrounding jungle like an upturned bucket, is divided in two by a deep, vertical crevasse in the stone. A bridge spans that twenty-feet crevasse, connecting the city proper with the small but sophisticated New Vulcan Land Port. 

 

Spock looks past Jim again, his shock making way for an expression of determination. To an outsider, it would probably look as though Spock is completely unaffected by the sight of Khan aboard the _Bug_ , but Jim knows how to read his friend's subtle facial clues by now. “I will be there.”

 

And so will a squad of Vulcan security officers, Jim is willing to bet. He closes the transmission window and swivels around in the pilot seat. Khan hasn't moved an inch, but his posture is tenser than usual, if that's even possible. 

 

“They'll arrest you,” Jim says. 

 

“Yes,” Khan responds, turns, and walks away.

 

Damn it. Jim hits the button that automatically seals all the _Bug's_ exits – the loading ramp and the airlock in the back – and hurries after him. “Give me something to work with, here,” he demands, catching up to the other man. He squeezes past Khan, turns to face him, one hand pressed against Khan's chest to prevent him from just plowing Jim over. “I can't just let you go. You're a criminal! You're responsible for -”

 

“That old song again,” Khan murmurs. At Jim's disbelieving stare, he all but rolls his eyes. “Which of my actions are you referring to, captain – events 300 years in the past, or the more recent ones? The former will do nothing but paint you an idiot. You may as well condemn the British for conquering India, once upon a time, or the Americans for committing genocide against the indigenous population of the continent they then hailed the land of freedom. My people and I were _genetically engineered_ to be superior and _raised_ to end wars. We did precisely what our creators intended us to do. I am certain your First Officer could lecture you on the true meaning of the catch phrase 'getting what you wish for'.” 

 

He brushes Jim's hand off, stepping closer, the faintest of sneers on his face. “If it's the latter ones that stir your oh so righteous moral outrage, you would do well to remember who _started -_ ”

 

Jim gets up right in his face, incensed. “Marcus didn't bomb the Kelvin Archive to pieces, or shoot up the Daystrom Conference Room! That was you. All you. If you'd gone after _just_ him -”

 

“Marcus held my people hostage and coerced me into working for him.”

 

“That didn't give you the right to kill people who had nothing to do with what _Marcus_ was doing.” Jim's right back where he was ten years ago, burning with the desire to make Khan pay for the heinous crimes committed against a city full of innocent people. “You could at least _pretend_ you're sorry.”

 

Coldly, Khan looks at him. “I am not.” Before Jim can respond to that flat statement, he continues, “Tell me, captain – if I had not sent Thomas Harewood to blow up the Section 31 base in London, if I had not sought revenge against Marcus in the San Francisco headquarters – if I had come to you and pleaded my case, begged you on my knees like I did Marcus for the freedom of my people and my own – what would you have done?”

 

It's a loaded question. Jim bites down on the automatic response – _I would have helped you, of course!_ \- and allows himself a moment to think about it. He's not so sure he _would_ have helped Khan, not once the truth about the man's origin and past came to light. He might have helped him to liberate Khan's crew from Marcus' clutches, and he sure as hell would have tried to ensure Marcus' behind-the-scenes warmongering was stopped. 

 

But then? Honestly, Jim couldn't have let Khan and his people go. They were too dangerous. 

 

Starfleet Command would undoubtedly have insisted on freezing Khan back up, regardless of Marcus' actions. At most, the 300-year-old Augments could have hoped for life in a penal colony under heavy supervision, but even that would not have been guaranteed. To sabotage group cohesiveness and prevent an uprising, Starfleet Command would have insisted on splitting them up. 

 

Frustrated, Jim throws his hands up. 

 

“I'll tell you what you would have done,” Khan says, relentlessly rubbing it in. “You would have done what you _did_ do, in the end: you delivered my people back into the hands of the very same organization that used me to further their own goals, even after you were made aware of the corruption taking place at the highest level.” He takes a small step back, squaring his shoulders. “And look how that panned out.”

 

If Khan's hoping to incite Jim's anger further or goad him into a fight, he's going about it the wrong way. Jim has had ten years to go over the fateful events that ended with the confiscation of McCoy's experiments and the development of that cursed vaccine. He's had ten years to doubt and blame himself, to second-guess every order he'd given. If Scotty and the others hadn't pulled himself out of the self-destructive spiral of self-doubt, blame and alcohol, Jim's pretty sure he would have ended up where McCoy did: brains splattered over a wall, the business end of a gun between his teeth. 

 

Jim makes a decision. He pulls his phaser gun and brings it up between them. “Into the bathroom.” When Khan doesn't move at once, he adds, “Move, or I'll shoot a piece out of you. This gun doesn't _have_ a stun setting.” Khan steps through the open bathroom door, face once more devoid of expression. He even goes so far as to move all the way to the far wall like a model prisoner. 

 

“I can't deal with you now,” Jim says by way of explanation. If he's honest with himself, there's a chance he'll never be able to deal with Khan rationally. “Maybe the Vulcans will know what to do with you, but I don't. I got other problems, now.”

 

He shuts the door and sets an override that will keep it shut. It's the best he can do, on short notice, to ensure Khan won't attempt to get off the _Bug_ before they get to the Vulcan capital. 

 

\- - -

 

Spock waits for them at the Vulcan Land Port with a small army of armed security officers. Before Jim even gets to say hello, six of them march up the ramp, phaser rifles at the ready. “Yeah, well,” Jim says, hooking a thumb over his shoulder, “he's in the bathroom. Override code is 74-X-332. It's the only locked door in the place, you can't miss it.”

 

“Thank you,” the female Vulcan leading the group of six says. “May I inquire about the prisoner's state of mind?”

 

She wants to know if Khan will come out of the bathroom like hell's own fury. Jim doesn't have an answer for her and settles for a vague shrug. He doesn't know, and to be honest, he doesn't care. Spock by himself almost managed to beat Khan senseless. Against a squad of six, plus the ten more grouped orderly at the bottom of the loading ramp, even Khan won't stand a chance. 

 

Jim descends the ramp and joins Spock and Scotty, who are waiting on the edge of the landing pad. Scotty looks a little worse for wear, clothes smudged with more than the usual hydraulic oil, scrapes on his hands and face. Spock's sweater/tunic thing – Jim can never remember the Vulcan term for the shapeless upper garment – has a few maroon stains on it. 

 

Scotty takes Jim by the shoulders. “Dear god, lad – tell me it's a joke. How in the blazes did Khan end up on board the _Bug_? I thought he was dead.”

 

“It's a long story,” Jim says. The Vulcan security officers who went into the _Bug_ for Khan reappear at the top of the loading ramp, Jim's unwanted visitor in their middle. There are a pair of handcuffs around Khan's wrists, and two Vulcans have taken a hold of his arms at the elbows. Jim turns to Spock. “Where are they taking him?”

 

“Council prison.” Spock watches avidly how Khan is marched down the ramp and over to a waiting hovercraft. “It is the only place in the city that I am marginally certain of will be adequate to contain this individual. The Council has been informed of his arrival and the necessary precautions have been taken. He will be very closely watched.”

 

That's all Jim can hope for. Spock is looking a little like he did when Jim emotionally compromised him, all those years ago before they were friends, and it's scary to see. He nudges his shoulder into Spock's, attempting to distract him from the unpleasant memories the sight of Khan probably brought to the surface. “Hey, c'mon. We got other things to focus on, now. Tell me about the attack.”

 

Spock nods quietly. “Indeed, we do.” He leads the way to another hovercraft. “The sensors picked up the approaching Dreadnoughts 2 point 5 hours ago. We attempted to warn the colony, once our technicians asserted the attack was likely not directed at us. Fortunately, Admiral Braddock had already started the evacuation when we contacted him.”

 

Scotty takes a seat in the back. “'twas a bloody nightmare, let me tell you. I mean, we've all been waiting for something like that to happen, but no one was prepared when it did. It was chaos, and then those bastards started firing torpedoes at the main utility buildings.”

 

Jim tries not to imagine the carnage. “How many dead?” 

 

“Unclear.” Spock directs their vehicle across the narrow bridge spanning the crevasse. “There about 64 casualties confirmed by eyewitnesses, but we have not yet managed to come to a conclusive number due to the fact that there may be victims buried under the destroyed buildings.”

 

64 isn't so bad. Even a hundred more, buried and thus not accounted for, isn't so bad. It's an incredibly callous thought, but Jim has been expecting worse. At the last headcount, the colony was home for 6,422 people. But... Jim watches the way Spock's hands lie clenched against the steering controls of the hovercraft. “What are you _not_ telling me?”

 

“There are a total of 302 survivors in the Vulcan capital at the moment,” Spock says quietly. 

 

Jim thinks he misheard. “But...where's the rest? With 64 wounded and 302 in the city...”

 

“They beamed them up. They shot torpedoes at the buildings just so people would come running out into the streets.” In the back of the hovercraft, Scotty sighs. His eyes are watery. “And there's more. We received a distress call from the colony on Arakon just a few minutes before your message came in. The same thing that happened here, happened there.”

 

“Whoa, wait, stop.” Jim scoots around so he can see Scotty. “What do you mean, 'beamed them up'? Beamed them where?”

 

“Onto the Dreadnoughts.” Scotty scrubs a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. “This wasn't an attack to wipe out the colony. Those bastards came here to _empty_ the colony.”

 

\- - -

 

_**( Jeremy Doyen,** _ **A History of Empires** **_, publication date 2595 )_ **

_The Reborn Empire was formally established under its name on June 15 th, 2267. In the same year, Earth officially renounced its affiliation with the United Federation of Planets. It should be noted that 'empire' as a term to describe the structure of power on Earth is misleading; as far as historians today can ascertain, no king or queen was ever formally instated. We can assume that the hierarchical structure, after Mr. David Nguyen and his followers overthrew Starfleet Command, remained largely unchained. _

 

 _What follows is a list of_ known _Reborn institutions and titles, as they were established and introduced in 2267:_

 

_**Titles** _

 

  * _Head of the First Reborn Council [ location: San Francisco ]_

  * _First and Second Adviser [ military ] to the Council_

  * _First and Second Adviser [ civilian ] to the Council_

  * _Elected Representative [ civilian, global ] - comparable to a congress member's status_

  * _Chief of Security [ military ]_

  * _Chief of Security [ civilian ]_




 

_**Institutions** _

 

  * _San Francisco Medical Center of Genetics_

  * _San Francisco Re-Educational Center [ military and civilian ]_

  * _Imperial Forces Base ( San Francisco, London, Berlin, Tokyo )_




 

_As of June 2267, the Head of the First Reborn Council ( David Nguyen, 2223 – 2291 ) represented the Reborn Empire in all matters, as the formal head of state. [...]_

 

_We today can only speculate how the Reborn managed to overtake an entire planet in such a relatively short time, and with so little opposition from the very people whose lives were ultimately changed. The fact that they did certainly gives credit to the theory of a blood-bond, a sort of genetically enforced sense of cohesiveness, as is sometimes observed in other mammals._

 

_However, we must remember that for all its outward suddenness, the rise of the Reborn Empire was very much a quiet revolution. Those who opposed the revolution, as individuals or groups, were incarcerated and/or executed. We have credible accounts of re-education including such drastic measures as brainwashing and 'reprogramming'._

 

 _Finally, we must remember that at its very core, the vaccination aimed at_ bettering _the human race as a whole. It was not a selective process aimed at weeding out unwanted elements of society based on cultural background, race, or education. It was not a reenactment of Hitler's deplorable concentration camps, or the rise of a 'master race' above all others. Starfleet Command ensured the vaccination reached the farthest corners of the Earth. Success was ultimately decided by one's own_ health _, rather than other factors._

 

 _With the Klingons bearing down on Earth, it is not really surprising how many took the vaccine_ willingly.


	3. THREE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING:** There is a scene at the very end of this chapter that is likely to squick people who are squeamish about blood and somewhat graphic descriptions of carnage. The scene isn't very long, but it's there. Proceed with caution.
> 
> ...also went back and corrected that thing where Jim was shaking hands with all the Vulcans. Which, like, no. But! Fixed now.

\- - -

 

**CHAPTER THREE**

 

\- - -

 

In the week that follows the attack, tempers run high. It is inevitable that those left behind seek a culprit for the tragedy that has befallen their colony, someone to blame for the near total destruction of everything they built and everyone they lost. The final death tally stagnates at a conservative 114, all of whom are victims of torpedo fire or buildings that crumbled like card houses above their heads. 

 

With 302 survivors, that makes for 6006 people who are now gone, and whose fate is as much topic of discussion as whose fault it was. Theories range from loved ones being forced into slave labor on Earth, to forcible applications of the vaccine and brainwashing, to showy executions to demonstrate the might of the Reborn Empire. 

 

Matters get worse when the news of similar events taking place all over the Alpha Quadrant spread. The colonies on Arakon and Tandar fall when the one on New Vulcan does; then follow the ones on Mizar II and Tyree. It appears the Reborn are intent on wiping out the last pockets of non-altered humans in one fell swoop. Not knowing why makes it worse. Everyone was expecting the Reborn to come, sooner or later – opinions as to why vary, of course – but why now? And why have they gone to the trouble of beaming up the people, instead of just laying waste to the colony?

 

Jim has a suspicion. 

 

He keeps it to himself – only talks about it with Scotty, Spock and Uhura. Khan's presence in the Vulcan capital is kept carefully secret. It's not so much out of genuine concern for the man's safety as it is for _Jim's_ ; if it were to become known the Dreadnoughts descended on New Vulcan just hours after a 300-year-old woman fleeing from the Empire beamed a 300-year-old mass murderer onto the _Bug_ , there would be calls for blood. 

 

Jim's in enough danger as it is. He's right back where he started, with fingers pointed at him and whispers behind his back. The knowledge of his existence conveniently fell by the wayside for the duration of those years he jetted through space, bartering for goods to bring back home, but he's on New Vulcan now, and he's one of _them_. All his previous deeds – all the long, lonely hours spent in space, bartering with shady traders for goods to ferry back to the colony – matter very little to the few colonists left behind. 

 

He spends most of that week at Spock's and Uhura's house, as a result. T'sha, the couple's daughter and Jim's goddaughter, is ecstatic to spend time with him, but to Jim it feels as though the walls are closing in around him with every passing hour. He can't help in the effort to rebuild the colony, out of fear of being lynched on account of his past and his blood, and if he's honest, his heart isn't in it, anyway. In his opinion, it's folly to rebuild. The few remaining non-altered humans would be better off finding a ship somewhere and getting the hell out of the Alpha Quadrant, before the Reborn decide to come back and finish the job. 

 

For that to come to pass, Jim thinks, is only a matter of time. While the thought of giving up the colony leaves a bad taste in his mouth and smacks of defeat, he knows the colonists can't beat the Reborn. They wouldn't even be able to beat a single Dreadnought, not with their numbers so low now and lacking the bare necessity space combat requires: a warship. 

 

He brings it up with Scotty, his idea of leaving the colony behind to look for greener pastures elsewhere, and then with Sulu, who both agree with him. But bringing it up with the rest of the colonists would require them to _listen_ to Jim. As it stands, he can barely set foot in the colony without someone, mad with grief or rage, coming at him with jumbled accusations and wild conspiracy theories, as though Jim _lead_ the Dreadnoughts to New Vulcan and ordered the destruction of the colony himself. 

 

So he waits, and stews, and waits some more. When it becomes clear that the majority of the colonists have no intention of going anywhere – an attitude Jim might have applauded, once upon a time and under different circumstances – he spends two hours sparring with Spock, just to work off some frustration. 

 

At the end of the week, he decides to visit Khan. 

 

\- - -

 

“Has he been any trouble?”

 

The Vulcan security officer watching Jim sign his name in the visitor's log of the Council Hall negates the question with a shake of the head. “On the contrary, Mr. Kirk. Mr. Singh has been a model prisoner. We've had no complaints from the personnel assigned to watch him, and have observed no aberrant behavior.”

 

Khan had been a model prisoner on the _Enterprise_ , too, as long as he was behind the corundum-silicate glass that served as a protective barrier between criminals and crew. Once out of his cell however, Khan had proceeded to demonstrate just how much _better_ he was by orchestrating the take-over of the _Vengeance_. 

 

Jim doesn't think it's necessary to mention any of this to the Vulcans watching Khan, as he's pretty sure Spock, in detail and at length, impressed upon his people the very real danger Khan Noonien Singh poses – even behind bars. 

 

He salutes to the security officer and makes his way down to the Council Hall's sub-level. It's quite a long walk, down two sets of stairs and through five different doors, until he arrives at the entrance to the place where the Vulcans keep their prisoners. The air is cool down here, a welcome relief from the hot summer winds outside. The walls, floor and ceiling are sandstone-yellow, the lights set to a percentage soothing to sun-dazzled eyes. It's probably meant to have a calming influence, as it would only be logical to keep dangerous individuals in an environment that's less likely to drive them on a murderous rampage. 

 

Jim doubts it has the intended effect on Khan. 

 

The last door before the cell area is guarded by a pair of Vulcans engaged in the thrilling act of staring at a bank of computer and surveillance monitors. They watch Jim avidly as he approaches, and one of them rises. “Security check, sir.” Jim spreads his arms and lets himself be patted down, then holds still while a scanner is applied to him. “Thank you, sir.”

 

“What's he doing in there?” Jim asks with a nod at the door. 

 

The guard sets the scanner aside and types a code into the lock of the door. “Nothing, sir. He spends most of his time in what we assume is a meditative state.”

 

“Has he asked for anything?”

 

“We did provide him with reading material, at his request. It is the Council's understanding that Mr. Singh spent the last ten years in cryo-sleep. Subsequently, he has missed all of the important political changes. The Council saw no harm in helping him fill the gap in his knowledge.”

 

Jim steps through the opening door. Like the rest of the building, the sub-level containing the prison cells is sandstone-colored. “What kind of security do you have in here?”

 

“Motion and bio sensors, as well as visual surveillance of the cells. The sanitary areas are, of course, exempt from the latter, as it would be a serious breach of -”

 

“All right, all right.” Jim knows all about prisoners deserving privacy while they take a dump. “Thank you. I don't know how long I'll be. Is there a curfew?” At the shake of the guard's head, Jim nods his gratitude again and makes his way toward the cell at the end of the corridor. A chair has been set out for him. Unlike the _Enterprise_ brig, the prison cells here have metal bars instead of transparent security barriers. 

 

Jim drags the chair a little further away from the bars before he flops into it. “Hello.”

 

The cell offers little in the way of comfort. A simple cot stands alongside the left-hand wall, bolted to the floor. A single chair and small table, similarly fixed in place, take up the room in the far right corner, next to an open doorway Jim assumes leads to the bathroom. 

 

The solitary occupant of the cell acknowledges Jim's arrival with a fractional turn of the head. Khan sits on the edge of the bed – no blanket, Jim notes, and no pillow either – with a stack of PADDs next to him. He's in the same clothes he was in when he was beamed onto the _Bug_ , and he's still barefoot. 

 

Jim nods at the PADDs. “Catching up, I see.”

 

Khan glances down at the PADD he holds in one hand. He lays it on top of the others, moves the entire stack until all the edges are perfectly aligned, and then turns into a statue, gaze fixed on the wall opposite the bed. 

 

A minute passes. 

 

Jim caves first. The silence is unnerving. “Look, if you want to be alone, just say so. I just came by to see how you're doing, and -”

 

“One of my people committed suicide to save me,” Khan interrupts. He sounds angry, bitter, not at all collected and calm like his posture suggests. “The others are either dead, or held as lab rats somewhere on Earth. The very same organization that woke me in the first place and then condemned me for being what I am, used my bloodto build an empire. How do you _think_ I feel?”

 

Jim pulls himself a little more upright in the chair, looking harder for the clues he missed when he came in – there: fingertips and nails white from pressure where Khan's hands lie on his knees, shoulders pulled straight to the point of rigidity – and clears his throat. “Maybe if you hadn't gone all psychopathic murderer back then...”

 

Khan sends him a withering look. Due to the soothing lights and the resulting warm shadows lingering in the corners of the corridor and the prison cells, his pupils are so large his eyes look nearly black. It has the disconcerting effect of making it look as though there are two holes in his face, unfathomable and endless, doorways into the abyss – not such a farfetched thought, considering Khan's obsidian mind. “Maybe _you_ should have let me finish what I started. There wouldn't be a Reborn Empire, now. But no: your _perfect_ Starfleet, incapable of doing wrong. You,” he says sharply, “really fucked up.”

 

It doesn't sound as though Khan's singling him out specifically; Khan is addressing the entire human race as a whole, with Jim sitting here as their sole representative – ignoring the fact that Jim isn't really human anymore. 

 

“Nobody expected things to turn out the way they did,” Jim protests, knowing how weak it sounds. 

 

“Nobody ever does,” Khan says, scathingly. “I always knew you are more governed by emotion than intellect, but this is base stupidity. I revealed the corruption to you by exposing Marcus' true goals. Did you honestly think Marcus orchestrated all of this by himself? Why do you think no one came to your ship's aid, even when the final stage of battle took place in _Earth's orbit_?”

 

Jim can't answer that. He honestly hadn't thought about it, at the time, being a little too busy trying to save everyone. He'd thought about it later, in the hospital. By then, it had already been too late, and the wheels set in motion to cover up Admiral Marcus' doings had been cycling viciously. 

 

And while Jim can't claim to be the most emphatic of people, he understands the rawness Khan displays in this moment, voluntarily or not. Strip away that wrong, wrong view of the world that categorizes people into _superior_ and _not_ , and Khan is a man like any other. He's not a murder machine, no matter how much his actions indicate the opposite. Jim's _been_ where Khan is now: somewhere at the bottom, where it's all murky and dark and the people he'd worked so hard to save are out of his reach, possibly forever.

 

Uneasy with the unexpected emotional parallel, Jim thinks about leaving before their conversations spirals out of control. He came here on a whim, looking for a distraction from the unbearable situation in the colony, perhaps to gloat a little that Khan is back where he belongs: behind bars. 

 

Jim can't gloat. Not at this. 

 

Seeing Khan brought low by the discovery of the events of the past ten years – the full story, not just those glimpses he'd been given aboard the _Bug_ – and _feeling sorry_ for him touches places in Jim he'd rather not think about. It makes him feel emotionally manipulated, the same way he'd felt in the brig of the _Enterprise_ , when Khan spoke about 'family' – only it doesn't look like Khan's attempting to manipulate him. 

 

Khan is staring at him as though he, Jim, is solely responsible for the existence of the Reborn Empire and the gruesome fate that befell his crew. That hits a little too close to home for Jim to want to stay here any longer. 

 

Khan averts his gaze. “ _Leave_ , captain. The very sight of you makes me _sick_ ,” and yeah. Time to go. Jim gets up. He's halfway down the corridor when Khan's voice rings out again. “You had better tell your Vulcan lapdogs to freeze me back up, or to execute me. I'll find a way. I always do. That was Marcus' mistake. He thought me beaten. _Me_.”

 

Jim looks back over his shoulder, incredulous. “Isn't it kind of idiotic to point out you're thinking about getting out of here?” When Khan doesn't respond, Jim sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. Of course Khan would be thinking of escape. Who wouldn't? “You'd go up against an empire? Alone?” 

 

“I've done so before.”

 

Khan had gone up against Starfleet by himself, and nearly won. If not for Spock, he would have. But there are different factors involved, this time. “Aren't you forgetting the part where they're all super-people now, with your _superior_ blood?”

 

Khan's disembodied voice floats down the corridor, dark, angry and full of venom. “Blood doesn't make an empire. People do. And people die.”

 

\- - -

 

_**Personal log, May 2265, Entry -2091** _

_The experiment was a total failure. The blood of Subject #01 [ 'Ann', Afro-Asian Female, approx. age 40 ] holds none of the potency I've hoped for. We can synthesize the serum, but we cannot replicate the curative and mutative qualities Subject #00's [ 'Khan' ] blood has. I don't know why. I assumed all Augments, racial differences aside, would have the same basic genetic blueprint. I wish the medical data from the Eugenics Wars still existed!_

 

_**Personal log, May 2265, Entry -2092** _

  * _2100h, banquet reservation, re: Adm. Brown's birthday_

  * _flowers???_

  * _dry cleaner / new shoes_




 

_**Personal log, May 2265, Entry -2093** _

_Subjects #02 [ Caucasian male, name ???, approx. age 30 ], #03 [ Caucasian male, name ???, approx. age 40 ] and #04 [ Afro-American male, name ???, approx. age 25 ] did not survive thawing process, poss. due to faulty sequence. Have ordered complete autopsies. Have ordered thorough check of remaining cryo-tubes._

 

_**Personal log, June 2265, Entry -2094** _

_Subject #05 [ Caucasian male, name 'Otto', approx. age 35 ] successfully thawed. Cognitive functions superb. Vital functions within expected parameters. Responds with hostility and physical violence, demands to speak to person in charge. Misogynistic pig._

 

_**Personal log, August 2265, Entry -3119** _

_Damn that thrice-cursed idiot Marcus! We lost 39 out of 73 available test subjects because the sequencing of the thawing process is still a mystery. I always said we should keep proper records, but does anyone listen to me? No!_

 

 _How did he do it? How?? Did Marcus just randomly open that one cryo-tube out of 73 that_ didn't _have ass-backward programming?_

 

 _Have ordered my technicians to go over the data logs of the_ Botany Bay _, to see if we missed anything. I can't believe that a bunch of super-intelligent, genetically engineered prodigies would leave something so vital as the correct function their cryo-tubes' sequencing process to_ chance _. There has to be something we missed._

 

_**Personal log, August 2265, Entry -3120** _

_Going in for vaccination today. I'm a little nervous._

 

_**Personal log, August 2265 - #23-73-001 Authorization Code: ACCESS DENIED – 2 ATTEMPT(S) REMAINING** _

 

_**Personal log, August 2265 - #23-73-001 Authorization Code: ACCESS DENIED – 1 ATTEMPT(S) REMAINING** _

 

_**Personal log, August 2265 - #23-73-001 Authorization Code: ACCESS DENIED – 0 ATTEMPT(S) REMAINING** _

 

_**Personal log KERENSKY, Susan [ #23-73-001 ADMIRAL ] – Deletion initiated** _

 

\- - -

 

A month after the Dreadnought attack, Old Spock dies. 

 

Jim isn't on New Vulcan when it happens. He gets the news from the other Spock, _his_ Spock, while skirting the edges of the Orion sector and waiting for the group of smugglers he made contact with to show up. The funeral, he's given to understand, was attended by _everyone_ – the Council, the common folk, even a small group of colonists. 

 

Jim feels vaguely guilty for not having been there, but not enough to truly regret it. Over a decade has passed since Old Spock laid his fingers against Jim's face and initiated a mind-meld, on that ice ball Delta Vega; to this day, Jim cringes from the mere memory of the intimacy of another mind touching his. In those fleeting moments, he'd glimpsed not only the circumstances that brought Nero and the _Narada_ to this time, this parallel, but also Other Kirk, that legendary Starfleet captain who went on to become an admiral and who influenced the shaping of the Alpha Quadrant like no other single person before him. 

 

He'd been left with the image of a larger-than-life figure, a hero – someone Jim never was, never will be – impossible to measure up to. Old Spock, to his credit, had never compared them, never pointed out Jim's shortcomings. Still, the knowledge that Old Spock knew how Jim's life _should_ have happened put him off enough to keep his distance. 

 

The irony here is that in his own way, Jim _has_ shaped the Alpha Quadrant like no single person before him, just not in the way he was supposed to. If he hadn't ordered McCoy to perform that full physio panel on Khan, the wondrous qualities of Khan's blood would never have become known. If he hadn't died, McCoy wouldn't have had to do the unthinkable and bring him back from the dead. 

 

If. If. _If_. 

 

Jim recognizes the pattern to his thoughts, gives himself a metaphorical smack to the back of the head, and concentrates on his dealings with the Orions. That kind of thinking had landed him in a tiny room on the New Vulcan colony, with too much alcohol and self-destructive ideas. 

 

He's not going to make that mistake again. He has the _Bug_ , and if the colonists on New Vulcan are intent on staying where they are, despite better judgment and common sense, then he's going to help them as best as he can. Short of forcing them aboard a ship at gunpoint and piloting them out of Reborn reach, there isn't much else he can do. 

 

He exchanges credits for a cargo-load full of food and clothes from the Orions. Burned by the previous experience of having Khan literally dropped on the _Bug_ the last time he went to catch a few hours of sleep during a return trip, he sets the straightest course possible for the way home, and spends 16 hours staring at the deep-space sensors. 

 

The unthinkable happens when he's twenty minutes away from New Vulcan. The sensors pick up not on just one, but four Dreadnoughts in Vulcan space. 

 

“No, no, no!” Jim drops the _Bug_ out of warp, engages the cloak, and stares with equal amounts of horror and disbelief at the four dots on his screen, heading _away_ from the planet. “Fucking – _no_!” The Dreadnoughts, with chilling precision, go to warp, their signatures quickly fading when they move out of sensor range. 

 

Numb with shock, Jim watches their stardust trails dissipate. Then he resumes course as fast as he can. Four Dreadnoughts – that's enough firepower to annihilate not only the colony but also the Vulcan capital, all in less than five minutes. He opens a communications channel, careless who else might hear him, the minute the _Bug_ enters the atmosphere. “Spock! Uhura! Scotty! _Anyone_!”

  
But no answer comes to ease the gut-wrenching dread that's taken a hold of him. He doesn't even get static. He gets silence, and through the forward view port he sees the sky darken where the ship's computers are unerringly guiding him to the Vulcan Land Port. The thick columns of smoke look obscene against the crystal-clear sky. 

 

“God damn it, someone answer me!”

 

Nothing. 

 

The Dreadnought captains went all out, this time. There is a deep crater now where the colony used to be, deeper than the valley where the colonists settled. Large portions of the surrounding jungle have been reduced to ash and blackened tree stumps. Jim circles the area twice, throat raw from shouting pleas at the communicator, but there's nothing left to suggest this wasn't a perfectly executed annihilation. Even the most outlying buildings are in ruins, little more than their foundations visible under soot and debris. 

 

Jim turns the _Bug_ west, toward the Vulcan capital. Bile burns on the back of his tongue. His eyes burn with tears and cold sweat. _Please_ , he thinks, _please, please_ \- 

 

Relief floods him like ice-cold water. 

 

The capital still stands. The land port is gone – so is the bridge spanning the crevasse between port and city, both smoking ruins, the ground marred by impact craters – but the domed structure of the Council Hall and the smaller, flatter buildings surrounding it stand untouched and tranquil under the suns. 

 

And finally, someone answers his calls: “Approaching vessel, identify yourself.”

 

\- - -

 

The strategical destruction of the Vulcan Land Port and the bridge aside, the capital suffered no other damage during the attack. Landing the _Bug_ on an empty field outside the city, Jim is picked up in a hovercraft and shuttled to the Vulcan Council Hall, where a mere handful of colonists who happened to be in the city when the Dreadnoughts struck have been gathered. There are five humans left out out of 6,422: a woman and her son, a young scientist who sought help from the Vulcan's Science Academy, and an elderly couple. 

 

They look as shell-shocked as Jim feels. The boy keeps asking for 'daddy, daddy'. The scientist, a young woman, sits in a corner, shivering. The elderly couple, gray-haired and frail, hold hands, talking in hushed, worried voices about where they'll live now, and how they'll pay for accommodations. 

 

Jim can't bear to be near them and aimlessly wanders the Council Hall, waiting for Spock to come out of a meeting. His thoughts are going in circles. 

 

Five out of 6,422. That's not counting Jim, who never truly belonged to the colony, or Uhura, who is married to a Vulcan and never lived in the valley, either. Five. The others are gone. 

 

Despair kindles a small flame in Jim's gut, sparking anger: those fucking Reborn. The step from deep-seated resentment to hate is a small one; Jim takes it willingly. He lets it suffuse him, fill him, until it burns like wildfire in his veins, rolls just under the surface. 

 

He wishes, for one treacherous, ice-cold second, that the Klingons _had_ won the war. Wipe out the hive, the nest, before it turns into this: black locusts swarming out from Earth, a plague of vultures waiting to descend on the carcass of the Federation. The Reborn aren't human, not anymore; whether it's a few of them at the top, making the decisions that send the Dreadnoughts out to grab the last free, non-altered people, or a whole planet eagerly awaiting the return of the lost sheep, to integrate them back into the flock – it doesn't matter. 

 

Something must be done. 

 

\- - -

 

It is evening by the time Jim and Spock take a hovercraft to Spock's house. Spock's father Sarek accompanies them, sitting quietly in the back. When they arrive at the house, T'sha flings herself at her father and doesn't let go. Spock wanders off, stroking his daughter's back, murmuring under his breath to calm her down. Sarek, with a quiet nod to Uhura, disappears toward the kitchen. 

 

That leaves Jim with Uhura, who looks at him hollow-eyed and then draws him into an embrace. 

 

“I'm sorry,” she whispers. 

 

He wants to snap at her, ask what she's apologizing for. The emotional turmoil Jim's been through today has left him with anger, cold and sharp, and a burning desire to see an empire in flames. He doesn't snap. He won't allow himself to make Uhura a target of the crystalline machinations inside his mind; she doesn't deserve it. Jim will keep his anger to himself, carefully guarded, a barb-wired present to be delivered to the right address when it's time. 

 

Jim wonders if this is what Khan felt like, all those years ago, when he'd thought Marcus murdered his crew: all triggers set on _kill_. “It's going to be all right, Nyota.”

 

She pulls away. Worry lines are etched into the skin around her eyes. Holding him at arm's length, she looks at him. “What are you planning?”

 

“Nothing.” Uhura doesn't look convinced. All-consuming anger or no, Jim doesn't have the heart to really lie to her. “Something dumb,” he offers, a not-so-bent truth. He does have the vague outline of a plan, half-finished and already monstrous, but oh so _just_. “Don't worry about it. And don't ask. Please.”

 

Uhura's mouth turns up at the corners, just the hint of a sad smile. “Another one of your gut things?”

 

“Something like that, yeah.”

 

She lets him go. Jim finds his way to the small room on the second floor, officially the guest room, unofficially his room, for a shower and a change of clothes. He's in desperate need of sleep – 16 hours staring at the _Bug's_ scanners, plus another seven waiting for Spock to be done with the Council – but too wired to want to lie down. 

 

That, and he needs to talk to Spock. 

 

He gets his chance after dinner. As soon as he can, Jim beckons Spock out onto the balcony, out of earshot of the others. 

 

“I want Khan,” he says without preamble. When Spock doesn't answer, just stands there with slightly lowered eyebrows that convey no readable reaction at all, Jim continues, resolutely, “He's the reason the Reborn came here. You know it. The Council knows it. Give him to me.” 

 

Spock turns away, pacing the length of the balcony, hands clasped behind his back. The cooler evening winds are ruffling his hair, bringing relief from yet another raw, red day. Arriving at the corner of the balcony, well out of earshot of Uhura, T'sha and Sarek, who are sitting over dessert in the kitchen, he assesses Jim long and silently. “What will you do with him?”

 

“As if you don't know, already.” Spock doesn't deserve being a target of Jim's anger, either, but Jim's prepared to play hardball, if he has to. There's nothing 'logic' about what he's planning, and he'll freely admit it if Spock points it out – but he's not going to let himself be talked out of it. “You want to see your daughter grow up in peace, without having to worry about the Reborn laying waste to New Vulcan? Give Khan to me.”

 

“Attempting to emotionally manipulate me is beneath you,” Spock points out archly. Jim doesn't reply. In a rare display of agitation, Spock abruptly turns away, staring out into the garden behind the house. “I cannot allow you to do that. It is folly. You are overly emotional at the moment, a state that can be excused considering today's events, but I will not sanction a suicide mission.”

 

“Then you can lock me into a cell right next to him, because I'll go insane if I sit around here and do nothing.” At the flatly delivered statement, Spock's head whips back around, dark eyes taking in Jim's determined, matter-of-fact expression with something that approaches incredulity. “So you can either give me what I want, or I'll go by myself. You'll have to put me in chains to keep me here.”

 

“Jim -”

 

“No. We're not discussing this.” Jim draws himself up tall. A bit of _captain_ returns to him, and with it the casual ease with which he'd stopped discussions, made decisions. And there is absolutely no reason for Spock to acquiesce to Jim's demand, as they're not captain and first officer anymore, but nonetheless Spock draws himself up tall as well. 

 

Eye to eye. Equals – as they've always been. It's heart-wrenching, to think about what else they might have been – how their friendship might have grown, how their futures might have gone - had things not gone so spectacularly wrong. Perhaps in the end, Jim wouldn't have felt like Other Kirk was someone he had to measure up to, larger-than-life, but an equal: glorious across all dimensions. 

 

It's meaningless now, to speculate about it. Jim says, “I'm going. Are you going to give Khan to me, or not?”

 

\- - -

 

It takes a few days for the necessary modifications the _Bug_ needs to undergo to be completed. Jim wishes Scotty were here; the former Chief Engineer of the _Enterprise_ had built the _Bug_ for Jim from scratch, basically, and while Scotty would have muttered and cursed and called Jim every name under the sun and a fool on top of it, he'd be done with the modifications a lot _faster_ than the Vulcans. Jim misses him. 

 

Perhaps, with a little luck, he'll find Scotty, though, and Sulu too. He refuses to believe the Reborn went to the trouble of beaming up the colonists only to then execute them when the person they are looking for wasn't among them. 

 

If they did – if Scotty, Sulu and all the others are dead – well, then that's more fuel to the fire Jim plans on starting. It'll burn bright and hot, regardless. 

 

When the Vulcan technicians have finished their work, Jim comms Spock. “Ready here.”

 

Khan's brought out to the field in a hovercraft. He's so heavily sedated he can't walk under his own strength. Two Vulcans carry him up the _Bug's_ loading ramp, through the cargo bay, to the bridge. It takes a bit of maneuvering to situate Khan where Jim wants him – in the second, new pilot seat next to Jim's – because there's literally no space left on the bridge now for more than two people. 

 

The Vulcans take their leave. Jim waits in the doorway of the bridge, from where he can keep an eye on Khan. 

 

Spock arrives a few minutes later. He comes up the loading ramp, meanders through the cargo bay, down the short hallway to the bridge, greeting Jim with a curt nod of the head. Spock's gaze then drifts to the sedated man on the bridge, and his expression darkens. “I still say this is a mistake.”

 

“I know.”

 

“If my duties did not keep me here – if my family did not keep me here -”

 

“Spock,” Jim says, fondly, “I _know_.”

 

They exchange a tactile farewell, hands clasped on the other's shoulder. “Good luck,” Spock says, and with a last, tight look in Khan's direction, leaves. Just before he reaches the cargo area, he stops, and with quirked eyebrow, offers, “Nyota wishes me to convey to you that she has promised to introduce her boot to your hindquarters, should you not return from this...mission.”

 

Jim huffs out a laugh. “Tell her I'm suitably cowed, and will do everything in my power to prevent such an event from occurring. My ego can only take so many beatings before it crumbles.” His grin turns more earnest. “Give T'sha my love, will you?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“And Spock?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Thank you. For everything.”

 

Spock's mouth opens, closes. Opens again. It feels too much like a final good bye, and there are never any good words to say when those come around. Finally, Spock settles for nodding. And then he's gone. 

 

Jim waits until his friend's footsteps fade, then takes his seat on the bridge. He wants to be well in space before Khan regains full motor control, and the obstinate bastard is already rolling his head against the seat's headrest, despite the industrial-strength sedative the Vulcans dosed him with. Jim takes a moment to look Khan over while the ramp closes. He's wearing boots now, and a short, black jacket Spock unearthed god knows where. The pants and shirt are still regulation Starfleet uniform. They'll have to do something about the triangular emblem on the shirt; depending on where they go first, that little symbol will draw unwanted attention. 

 

 _If_ they go somewhere. Jim's plan depends on whether or not Khan will attempt to murder him, once he's fully awake. 

 

Khan's looking more and more awake with every second that passes. 

 

“Right,” Jim murmurs, “here we go.”

 

The _Bug_ lifts off smoothly. Jim catches a glimpse of Spock standing together with the other Vulcans at the edge of the field, next to the hovercraft, and lifts his hand in a last farewell. Then he directs his ship on a straight upward path, New Vulcan's suns bright and blinding, rolling through the bridge like liquid gold. Khan makes a disgruntled noise, face scrunching up. His eyes open to slits, then close again immediately. After over a month underground, in a climate-controlled, low-light cell, he's bound to be a bit sensitive. 

 

They pop into the vastness of space. Jim can tell by the vibrations of the ship around him when New Vulcan's gravity releases them, and sets course for Orion. Despite its relative proximity to Earth and thus the Reborn Empire, the Orion Syndicate has lost none of its power, and they do tend to turn a blind eye to unmarked vessels crossing into their space. 

 

Twenty minutes or so later, Khan goes from squint-eyed to alert. 

 

It's a subtle change, which most people might have missed, but Jim has been waiting for the blue-gray eyes to focus, for Khan's long limbs to go from incoherent sprawl to carefully held position. It's so weird to see Khan lolling somewhere, for once, his perfect posture gone, even if it's just an act now, while Khan takes stock of his surroundings. “Coherent yet?” Khan glances over at him, and the temperature on the bridge seems to drop a few degrees. Boy, if looks could kill. “I'll take that as a yes.” Jim sets an override on the navigation instruments, locking them on their current course. “So, I'll make a deal with you.”

 

Lips peeling back from his teeth, Khan snarls, “You have _nothing -_ ”

 

“Hear me out.” Jim swivels the seat around so they're facing each other. “This can go one of two ways. One, you and I duke it out here and now. One of us is probably going to die. End of story.”

 

Khan levers himself into a more upright position. He doesn't look happy to be where he is – 'happy' is a setting Jim suspects was left out when Khan's creators cooked up his genetics – but he isn't bodily throwing himself across the narrow space left between their seats, either. Not yet, at any rate. It's hard to tell if Khan's intrigued or just humoring him, or if this is the calm before the storm. “Or?”

 

This is the part of their conversation that will make or break Jim's plan. He's gone over it in his head, over and over again: looking for a flaw, for the catch. It's not that he planned a speech, some long-winded sermon about justice served, revenge and the unfairness of the universe – Khan's not exactly the type of person to be swayed by speeches, by his estimate, and Jim hates giving them - but he did think about how he's going to sell his plan to someone who's less than likely to be thrilled to be working with him. 

 

In the end, he decides on simplicity. “Or you'll burn down the Reborn Empire, and I'll help you. I'll even bring the popcorn.”

 

For once, for the first time ever since he's known him, Khan's looks as though he's speechless. He catches himself quickly, however, schooling his face back into the usual, impassive mask. He's a bit like Spock, in that regard – though Jim suspects they'd both rather choke on their own blood than admit to the similarity: presented with an unexpected situation, they clam up and dissect mentally, evaluating all the angles. Not like Jim, who tends to listen to his gut rather than his head, nine times out of ten. 

 

Finally, Khan literally squints at Jim. “I can't decide whether you're mocking me, taunting me, or if there was something in that sedative that has a lingering effect.”

 

If the situation wasn't so serious, Jim would laugh at that, but he gets the feeling that Khan will kill him if he does. “You're not on drugs. And before you ask, I'm not, either.” He might be a bit insane, gone mad with the loss of the colony – the straw that broke the camel's back, so to speak. Time will tell. He's not going to question this forward momentum while it lasts, or dig too deeply into his psyche. “I'm serious.”

 

Khan doesn't respond. 

 

“Right, I'll let you think it over. The course is set on Orion. I don't really have a reason for going there, other than the fact that we can get pretty much everything we need on the smuggler's market. If you want to change course, I'm open to suggestions – I'm kind of new at that whole,” Jim makes the air quotes, “one-man-army thing.” He rises, hooking a thumb over his shoulder. “I'll be in the lounge. Let me know what you decide, hm?”

 

It feels a bit as though he's turning his back on a ticking time bomb, but Jim goes. They'll have to trust each other at least enough to work together, and he figures he can take the first step, show Khan just how serious he really is. Jim's cards are on the table: he's got nothing left to offer, and very little left to lose. 

 

The rest is up to Khan now. 

 

\- - -

 

_August 25 th, 2256. _

 

_Admiral Kerensky's body convulses, goes rigid, then still. The bio-monitors and their blaring alarm sounds read what the scientists in the lab have been waiting for since the vaccine took effect: exitus. They aren't overly alarmed yet and move around the motionless figure on the bio-bed with soft-footed efficiency, readying hypos with booster fluids, mild sedatives, muscle relaxants. For some who undergo the vaccination, it's a little bit like dying: their immune systems overwhelmed by the introduction of Serum #00, shutting down, the mutagenic agents of the foreign blood tearing down the body's defenses to then rebuild them. Susan Kerensky won't be the first patient who 'died', only to miraculously come back to life minutes after the computers swear she's dead._

 

_On Kerensky's abdomen, a bulge forms. It's walnut-sized, with a pink dot in the center. It pushes out from inside her, like a tumor growing in fast-forward._

 

_The geneticist in attendance, Dr. Ellis, notices it first. “Unexpected cell growth,” he informs the lab at large, and prepares to collect a sample._

 

“ _Got a pulse now,” a nurse says, standing at Kerensky's head, gloved fingers resting on the admiral's neck. Ellis doesn't remember her name – Kelly? Karen? - but he does remember that the young woman hasn't been with them for long. She replaced Nurse Adams, who died at the hands of Subject #01 ( 'Ann' ) a week ago. “Why aren't the scanners showing it?”_

 

_Ellis watches the bulge on Kerensky's abdomen grow and grow. It's orange-sized now, its pink center rapidly darkening. He sets the tip of an extractor against the thin, stretched skin and collects a fluid sample. “Because it's not a pulse,” Ellis explains patiently. “Don't worry, Nurse...?”_

 

“ _Kelly, sir.”_

 

“ _Nurse Kelly. We've encountered this phenomenon before. It wouldn't have been included in your medical training because it's solely apparent in combination with the vaccine, and our treatment hasn't been made into a subject of the textbooks yet.” Ellis quickly takes another sample. On the bio-bed, Admiral Kerensky's ribcage is expanding steadily now, as though she's drawing a deep breath. “The serum stimulates cell replication. Some patients can't handle it. What you're feeling as a pulse is blood pumped through our patient's veins because her heart is being pressurized, a pseudo-pulse, if you want.”_

 

_Nurse Kelly looks at him as though he's grown another head. “Pressurized? By what? She's clinically dead. There's no way the natural decomposition would set in that quickly.”_

 

“ _You'll see in a moment.” Ellis raises his voice. “Lost cause. Clear the lab, now. The admiral's gone.”_

 

_They file out: Dr. Ellis, two nurses, a physician and a lab tech. The tech seals the lab doors, takes a seat at a computer console in the adjacent observation chamber, and calls out, “Video ready, sir.”_

 

_Ellis waves Nurse Kelly over. “You'll have a good view from here.” The round flexi-glass window they're standing in front of gives them a perfect overview of the lab and its sole occupant. “Start the recording.”_

 

_In the laboratory, Admiral Susan Kerensky's body blooms like a flower. The growth on her abdomen is joined by others, pushing up through the skin of her thighs, her arms, her neck and her face. Kerensky's chest, expanded to the point where the internal pressure is forcing her ribs apart with loud cracking sounds, convulses as though she's going through seizures. Then the growth on her abdomen splits open, releasing a torrent of clear fluid followed by a gush of bright, red blood. Pale, pink tissue curls over the edges of the ragged wound, glistening under the bright lab lights, as if a baby octopus is trying to climb out of Kerensky's belly._

 

“ _I'll inform the clean-up crew,” the physician announces. “Stating for the record: time of death, August 25 th, 2265, 14 hours and 55 minutes. Subject Kerensky, Susan. Vaccination unsuccessful.”_

 

_Five seconds later, Susan Kerensky literally explodes. She paints the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the lab equipment; she opens like an unlocked puzzle box, displaying her insides. In the space of a minute, she's a teeming, unrecognizable mess of rapidly replicating cells, bio-mass festering on every surface of the lab._

 

_Dr. Ellis watches with clinical detachment, perfectly content to ignore the pitiful sounds of Nurse Kelly retching her guts out in a corner. The clean-up crew can take care of that, as well, and Ellis will have a chat with the young nurse later, to determine if she's really up for the job. If she's not, he'll write her a glowing letter of recommendation and let her go._

 

“ _All right,” Ellis says when the mess in the lab_ finally _stops moving. “Next of kin?”_

 

_The other nurse, Darren, consults Admiral Kerensky's chart. “None, sir. Wasn't married, either.”_

 

_Thankfully, that means there won't be any too-deep inquiries into the exact circumstances of the admiral's death. Ellis knows for a fact that even among her peers, Kerensky was feared rather than liked, so the likelihood of grieving friends turning up is slim. No one is going to come poking their nose in with questions._

 

_Good._

 

_He slides a hand into his lab coat pocket, fingertips caressing the slender glass vial he exchanged for another one, minutes before the lab-bot injected Kerensky – not with the vaccine, which now sits in Ellis' pocket, but with a vaccine that's been...tampered with. “I'll be in my office.” Briskly, Ellis walks to the door. Nurse Kelly, wiping her mouth on her sleeve, the whites showing around her eyes, weakly staggers to her feet. “Are you all right?”_

 

_The young woman blinks at him. “I...” She looks at the puddle of vomit at her feet, swallows, and straightens up. “Yes. I apologize. I wasn't expecting...” She waves a hand at the blood-streaked observation window, blows air out through puffed cheeks, and visibly pulls herself together. “I'm fine. I'll clean this up. Again, my apologies, sir. It won't happen again.”_

 

_Looks like they won't have to replace Nurse Kelly, after all. Pity, that. She'd seemed such a nice girl. Ellis gives her an encouraging smile, tips his head at the room in general, and walks out. On the way to his office, he stops at the mess hall for lunch, chatting with the kitchen staff while they generously heat up today's leftovers for him. Lunch tray in hand, Ellis retreats to the safety of his office at the top floor of the newly christened San Francisco Medical Center of Genetics._

 

_He flushes the contents of the vial in his lab coat pocket down the toilet in the small adjacent bathroom, wraps the vial in a paper towel, crushes it, and then flushes the glass shards, as well. He washes his hands, hangs up his lab coat, and sits at his wide desk._

 

_When he's done eating lunch, Ellis calls Braddock on the admiral's private channel. They look at each other over the holo-feed. Ellis nods once. Braddock, grave-faced, nods back. They don't exchange a single word._

 

_Ellis ends the call. He leans back in his comfortable chair, hands folded over his belly, and gazes out the window at San Francisco's skyline._

 

_One down._

 

Dozens _to go._

 


	4. FOUR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things that bug me about St:ID #3947497657695 - changing Khan's past. Artistic liberty aside, what they did there literally had me screeching at the screen like a harpy. Khan-as-ruler-of-Earth _wasn't_ a genocidal maniac. He wasn't doing any work to weed out the 'less than superior' subjects that lived in his quarter of the planet, under his rule. TOS Kirk called him the "best of tyrants" - I think Jim Kirk wouldn't do that if the man he's talking about committed genocide. 
> 
> Artistic liberty I've taken: there's no real evidence, to my knowledge, that the other tyrants of Earth were genocidal maniacs, either. But I wanted to address this _somehow_ , without outright ignoring that part of ST:ID.

\- - -

 

**CHAPTER FOUR**

 

\- - -

 

Eventually, Jim gets hungry. He abandons his idle perusing of the few bytes of information he managed to gather over the years – a rough estimate of the number of Dreadnoughts, their standing crew, any deducible strategies the Reborn resort to when engaged in space battle – and applies himself to the food synthesizer in a corner of the lounge. 

 

Waiting for the computer to put together a meal for him, Jim feels the hair at the back of his neck stand on end. Behind him, the silence that has been reigning on the _Bug_ for close to two hours now thickens and coalesces into something more sinister and solid. When he turns around, Khan's standing on the threshold between bridge corridor and lounge. 

 

“Hungry?” Jim makes an inviting gesture at the synthesizer. “I should probably give you a tour. My ship's small, but she does come with a few perks.” Recalling that Khan is familiar with the sole bathroom, he nods at the sealed door on the other end of the lounge. “Cargo area's through there. At the back of that, there's the engine room. The room across from the bathroom is where the only bed is, so we'll have to -”

 

Khan cuts in, “What happened to the _Enterprise_?”

 

The event is far back in the past, enough so Jim doesn't automatically flinch anymore whenever his first ship's name comes up in conversation. Still, the memories do well up: the _Enterprise_ limping into the space dock above Tandar, after the Federation vessels finally caught up with them. They'd been broadcasting the truth about the vaccine for three weeks. Jim, listening to his gut, had ordered everybody off-board and down to the surface of Tandar via the beaming pads. 

 

They'd been half done with the evacuation when the _USS Skyward_ popped out of warp within spitting distance of the space station and opened fire. Jim lost half his crew that day. The explosion had been visible from Tandar's surface. The only reason why Jim hadn't died was because Chekov had literally shoved him onto the beaming pad, right into Spock and McCoy. It was the last time Jim ever saw Chekov. 

 

“Destroyed,” he answers Khan's question. “Got shot down in the space station of Tandar, in '62.”

 

Showing no visible reaction, Khan takes a step into the lounge and begins a slow circle of the area. He's been here before, but Jim spent a good four hours cleaning out the accumulated clutter of several years' worth of flying alone, and Khan looks at the remaining bits and pieces of furniture – the ratty couch, the small table with its bolted-down chairs, the metal cabinets containing a few oddities Jim picked up on his travels – as though he means to memorize where everything is. 

 

The synthesizer finally pops out Jim's meal. He takes a seat at the table, with his back to the wall so he can keep an eye on Khan. Leaving him alone on the bridge _was_ a show of trust, but Khan hasn't agreed to anything yet. Even if he does, Jim's not going to let his guard down too much. There will be a fight: he knows it. He's faintly surprised it didn't happen earlier, when he was still on the bridge, but maybe Khan simply wasn't fully awake yet.

 

Jim pops a forkful of vegetables and steamed rice into his mouth and chews. Khan's definitely fully awake now, and he's radiating tension and anger. 

 

Khan arrives at the table. “I cannot quite rid myself of the suspicion that you've gone insane.” He rests the fingertips of one hand against the table, inches away from Jim's meal tray. His tone of voice is light, but his gaze hard, unflinching and focused solely on Jim. 

 

Insane? Perhaps. Everyone has their breaking point, a line that once crossed can never be revisited. Frankly, Jim's amazed he lasted this long. Life after 2259 had been one long string of events that would have deconstructed men with stronger moral principles than Jim, a long time ago; if it hadn't been for Scotty, the _Bug_ , Sulu, Uhura, Spock and T'sha, Jim _would_ have disappeared into the ether, screaming his head off and foaming at the mouth. 

 

Curious, he asks, “Would that bother you?”

 

Khan's eyebrow curves. “Very. Insanity does tend to get in the way of precise and strategic planning.”

 

Jim licks his fork clean and twirls it between his fingers. “I'm not insane. I'm insanely _angry_. That's something you're familiar with, isn't it? That's why you went after Starfleet, when you thought Marcus had killed your people. I haven't forgotten or forgiven that, by the way. I'm just saying I understand why you did it.” Nonchalantly, Jim puts the fork down on the meal tray. He's treading on a minefield, drawing that kind of parallel between their motivations, but the parallel is there and he can't ignore it. “The Reborn took my friends from me. They took everyone. You know exactly why I'm doing what I'm doing.” 

 

Khan's expression twists, cool facade slipping briefly. His voice drops an octave, a silky rumble laced with poison. “And you think that makes us allies.”

 

“Why not?” Jim allows himself a tight smile. He has the impression he's about to start a landslide. “We're already brothers. I never thanked you for saving my life, did I?”

 

Khan's fist crashes against Jim's cheek, without warning. “You,” Khan snarls, gripping him by the front of his shirt and yanking him up to his feet, “worthless piece of -”

 

Jim rams his brow into Khan's face. Hears cartilage crack and feels the shock of the impact reverberate all the way down his neck into his shoulders, and quietly marvels that he's still standing. He knocked himself out once, doing that to someone else. 

 

They stagger apart. Khan's looking absolutely livid, blood pouring from his nose down over his lips and chin. 

 

“C'mon, you can do better than that.” Jim coaxes. He reaches up to finger the sticky wetness coursing down his face, where Khan's punch split his skin. The pain registers, but it's like disconnected information floating in, like it's happening to someone else and Jim is getting phantom impressions. It feels as if he's wrapped in several layers of protective gear, as if the pain receptors of his nervous system have been switched off. Curious. “That all you got?”

 

Khan utters a sound a human throat shouldn't be able to make. “You have _no_ idea -”

 

“Oh,” Jim says, gently, “I know _exactly_ what you're capable of. That's why I want you in on this, remember?” He's courting disaster, and he knows it. Khan looks ready to render him down into component parts, angrier than he'd been when he attacked Jim on the bridge of the _Vengeance_. 

 

Jim had ten years to work through his anger, his anguish, his guilt, whereas Khan has had a little over a month and nowhere to _go_ with the stormy emotions Jim can see so easily, once the mask slips. That won't do. He wants Khan focused on the present, not on that catastrophe of a past that ties them together. If a good old fist fight will clear the air between them, just a little, Jim's willing to give it a go. 

 

He pushes away from the table, limbering up, making a show of it. “We got about 14 hours till we reach the Orion system.” Jim licks blood from the corner of his mouth. “That ought to do it, don't you think? Enough time to work through this? Get it out of your system?”

 

With a wordless cry of anger, Khan lunges for him. They go down in a tangle of limbs, kicking, punching and snarling. Jim's willing to offer himself as a punching bag – especially since he's just now discovered that his body _doesn't mind_ all that much – but he's not going to just take it quietly. He gives as good as he gets.

 

The _Bug's_ lounge ends up in shambles. They break the couch. They leave dents in the walls, smears of blood on the floor. It's obvious Khan has a lot more experience in hand-to-hand combat than Jim does, but Jim has Khan's blood and somehow inherited the astounding capability to ignore damage that would have put him out cold before along with it. The fight goes on for what feels like hours – a misconception, Jim knows, but _good god, I_ could _do this for hours_. 

 

Finally, Khan manages to get both hands around Jim's throat, thumbs digging into his Adam's apple. Jim yanks his knee up into Khan's groin, wrenches his hands away by the wrists, and heaves to roll them over. On their sides, facing each other, it ends. 

 

And it's good that it does. Khan looks a right mess, nose cracked, lips split, bruises on cheeks and jaw, blood under his fingernails. His shirt's ridden up, showing a pale expanse of muscle-lined belly liberally covered in bruises. The pulse Jim feels hammering against his fingers is echoed in the rapid rise and fall of Khan's chest, each exhale-inhale a wheeze. 

 

Jim is no better off himself. The exhilaration of being able to ignore the pain comes with the downside of being able to tell where, exactly, each and every bruise, torn ligament and wound is located. McCoy had always speculated just how far the self-curing abilities of Khan's blood went; for obvious reasons, they never experimented. It's sobering to consider what kind of damage _has_ to be done, if Khan at his angry best didn't manage it, to knock a Reborn out. 

 

“Let go.” Khan yanks his wrists out of Jim's grip, shoves himself over onto his back. There's an audible crack and crunch of cartilage. Staring at Khan's profile, Jim watches the bridge of Khan's nose straighten out. “If you think,” Khan has to stop there, shoulders coming up off the floor under a violent cough that sprays the air with fine droplets of blood, “that makes us even -”

 

“That wasn't about making us even.” Gingerly, Jim lifts himself onto his elbow, then upright. “There's nothing in the world that'll ever make us even, and you know it.” The next loud crack-and-crunch comes from _him_ ; uncomfortably, Jim slips a hand down over his ribs. God, but it feels weird to feel the bone shifting on its own accord. “I mean, sure, you can kill me. Maybe. Or I'll kill you.”

 

Khan looks at him speculatively. There's still venom in his tone of voice. “So this was about letting me work off steam. How very understanding of you. Should I applaud?” 

 

“Oh, shut up.” There's something weird going on with the left side of Khan's jaw. Jim has to look away; watching bone move in places it isn't supposed to is making him more squeamish than feeling it. “Is it so far beneath you to work with me? We've done that before.”

 

Khan glares at him. “I remember how that ended.”

 

“Pull your head out of your ass,” Jim says flatly. “You were planning to take the _Vengeance_ for yourself all along. Don't blame me for not wanting to become your hostage, and you've got to be deranged if you believe I wouldn't have done everything in my power to stop you from destroying the _Enterprise_. So don't go blaming Spock, either. You weren't the only one with his crew's lives at stake, and -”

 

“Enough,” Khan growls.

 

“Enough?”

 

“We will not talk about this again.” Khan stares at the ceiling, negligently wiping the blood from his face. “You are right about one thing: we will never be even.”

 

Jim's fine with that. “All right.” He's done talking, anyway, for now. He should be screaming with pain, but all he feels is drained, and there's something strange going on. It's as if all the warmth is drawing from his limbs toward the center of his body, and that's a disconcerting sensation, to say the least. He flexes his fingers, puts the tip of one against the tip of his tongue. His skin is cold. His feet feel like clumps of ice in his boots. “Fuck, I'm cold all over. Is that normal?”

 

Khan snorts. “Augment repair.” He slants an odd look at Jim. “I'm assuming you're not familiar with it.”

 

“No. I didn't exactly go looking for fights after....after.” Jim tucks his hands into his armpits. How is he supposed to know what exactly 'augment repair' is? McCoy hadn't been sure of the entirety of side-effects of Khan's blood, the most obvious one aside. Maybe they should have run a few more tests than Jim was willing to hold still for, back then. That draining sensation isn't going away, and Jim's eyelids are beginning to droop alarmingly. “I don't fucking know. Just tell me.”

 

With an ease he shouldn't have been capable of, not after the epic beating they've just given each other, Khan sits up. He folds his legs under himself, elbows on his knees, fingers loosely laced. “They built us to last.” The way he says it, it's clear the 'us' doesn't include Jim. “You may have my blood, but you're not me. None of _them_ are me. A few drops of blood – even a full transfusion – wouldn't turn ordinary humans into real Augments. It makes you shadow copies, at best.”

 

There's an insult in those words, he's sure of it, but Jim's not capable of deciphering them. Oh, he does get the general gist – Khan stating, in far too many words, _I'm still better than you_ – but not what it _means_. The walls of the lounge are tilting, their corners softening, the overhead lights blurring. Jim sags sideways, unable to fight the pull of gravity that invites him to curl up on the floor. He's tired – _so_ tired, and he can't feel his hands or feet at all anymore. The fatigue even overwhelms his rising panic when he realizes he's about to fall asleep, unable to keep his eyes open any longer. 

 

He has to concentrate to form words, his tongue heavy and leaden between his teeth. “What's that mean?” With difficulty, he focuses on the man sitting in front of him. “What the fuck's happening -”

 

Khan lifts a hand, points his index and middle fingers at Jim, and gently prods them at Jim's shoulder. 

 

It's enough to send Jim sprawling, felled without effort, the back of his head smacking against the metal plating of the floor with a dull thud. The last thing he's consciously aware of before a black void swallows him is the expression on Khan's face, teetering somewhere between exasperation and anger. 

 

\- - -

 

_**( Jeremy Doyen, A History of Empires, publication date 2595 )** _

_Diplomatic relations between the species came to a complete stand-still during the Federation-Klingon War, and remained thus for decades to come. Opinions as to why, vary. Undoubtedly the Klingon Empire's reputation as ruthless conquerors contributed to the Federation members' reluctance to openly involve themselves, out of a well-founded fear of becoming the Klingons' next targets._

 

 _Yet both the Andorian and Tellarite governments, formal representatives of unarguably the most influential factions of Federation space after the Vulcans, have yet to offer explanations for their uncharacteristic timidity in dealing, even on a diplomatic basis, with the_ Reborn _Empire._

 

_Some historians and scholars have taken this behavior to mean – in the case of the Andorians and Tellarites – a perhaps badly expressed form of courtesy. Obviously the human species underwent a drastic change, and Federation policy had always been to study and observe, not to interfere._

 

_Furthermore, the change was self-inflicted. To this day, a few minor incidents aside, there have yet to surface believable accounts of wide-spread resistance to the vaccinations. Even James T. Kirk's act of spreading the truth about the origins of the serum and its effects did not incite mass hysteria or open revolts. While the establishment of the various human colonies on the home worlds of sympathetic species do indicate some humans did, in fact, prefer exile over vaccination, the exodus of roughly 450,000 can hardly account for the entirety of the human species._

 

 _In my opinion, the reservations exhibited by the Federation members can be attributed not only to courtesy, but perhaps a less politically motivated interest. I would like to urge my readers to think about the effects of the vaccination, rather than the circumstances that introduced it. The human species changed; undoubtedly, on a purely scientific level, the change was beneficial. Those who survived the vaccination were immune to not only a small range, but nearly_ all _known diseases. They were stronger, faster, more resilient to damage. Children born from Reborn parents showed a massive increase of intellectual capacity._

 

_It cannot be excluded that several Federation members – and in the case of the Romulans, even non-Federation species present in the Alpha Quadrant – did not interfere purely because they planned on benefiting from the changes the human species underwent, by procuring the serum for themselves._

 

\- - -

 

Jim dreams in black and white, or not at all. It takes some of the horror out of the things he's seen, his subconscious mind mercifully changing red to dark gray. The scenes come in snatches of imagery, often disconnected, arranged outside the internal time-line of Jim's life: Christopher Pike, dead on the floor of the Daystrom Conference Room in San Francisco, Chekov hurling himself at the beaming station, the supernova of the _Enterprise_ turning into stardust in Tandar's orbit, Vulcan imploding. 

 

Not everything is horror. Here and there linger fragments of a sometimes happy childhood, always carefully skirting the catastrophe of Tarsus IV, the long stretches where mommy went away and Frank reigned in the Kirk household in Iowa. It wasn't joining Starfleet that shaped James Tiberius Kirk; it began long before then. 

 

Jim opens his eyes to the familiar grid-pattern of his quarters' ceiling, hungry as he's never felt before, the lingering dream-images of a rather dull diplomatic mission to the Talarian Republic fading with an echo of Spock berating him for - 

 

Jim doesn't remember what Spock said. It was twelve years ago and all that remains is the distinct impression of Spock's arched brows and downward-curved mouth, a less-than-subtle indication of the Vulcan's mood: sour. They'd still been finding the stepping stones, back then, past- _Narada_. 

 

He lets the dream go, lets the walls of his quarters anchor him in the present. The lights have been lowered to a percentage close to zero. He's on his bed, boots still on. His hands and feet are warm. Jim liberates a hand from where it's curled into the sheets, wipes at his brow: his fingertips glide through drying sweat. His upper lip is wet with it. He's still feeling drained, but the strangeness has gone out of it and left behind bone-deep fatigue. Whatever it was that dragged him into sleep has run its course and left behind a sticky, safe-feeling individual in desperate need of a shower and a metric ton of food. 

 

 _Augment repair_. If his body, his new-old body, finally put to the test, reacts with irresistible sleepiness, that's something to keep an eye on. It's not bothering per se – Jim will gladly take a few hours of sleep over extended stays in hospital beds – but he needs to keep awareness of this new development high. _Can't keel over in the middle of a fight because I'm tired._

 

It leaves him at the mercy of whoever is around. With a growing sense of unease, distinctly recalling that his bed wasn't where he succumbed to the siren's call of sleep, either, Jim drags himself to his feet, fighting the urge to roll over for five more minutes. 

 

The _Bug's_ moving, but she's not in warp anymore. Navigating his way to the bull's eye window of his quarters, Jim looks out at an endless stretch of connect-the-dots stars and the edge of a rust-colored nebula. That's not a sight that should have greeted him on the way to the Orion system; Jim made the trip from New Vulcan to Orion often enough to know what he'd see. 

 

He marches out of the room. The lights are set to the lowest percentage possible on the entire ship. To Jim's right, the bridge is silent and dark except for the occasional blip of automated readings across a screen. Both pilot seats are unoccupied. The sight through the forward view port is _definitely_ not one he expected; Qo'noS, the Klingon home world, with its destroyed moon. 

 

Jim needs a moment to collect his racing thoughts. They're in Klingon space. Khan overwrote his override that should have kept them on the course to Orion, turned the _Bug_ around, and _they're in Klingon space_. 

 

“Khan!” Jim roars. 

 

In the corridor behind him, the door to the bathroom opens. “You're awake,” Khan states levelly, emerging into the corridor accompanied by a cloud of steam, towel over one shoulder. He ignores Jim's death glare, slips past him onto the bridge, and takes the co-pilot's seat. “We have an hour, at the most, to get to the Ketha Province. Unfortunately, your ship does not have transporter capabilities. That means we have to land.” When Jim doesn't move, just stares at him, he makes an exaggerated inviting gesture at the pilot seat. “I suggest we make haste.”

 

“Oh, so _now_ it's 'we'?” Jim crosses his arms over his chest. “First, why the hell are we here? That's the Klingon home world, for fuck's sake! We're -” He makes the mental adjustment. “The Reborn are at war with the Klingons, in case that slipped your mind. Two, you overrode my override! And three -”

 

Khan changes seats smoothly. Before Jim can react with more than a disbelieving glare and a vague noise of protest, both of which go ignored, the _Bug_ tips downward. Qo'noS, dark and foreboding, looms through the forward view port. Going down there is as close to suicide as Jim can imagine; the mere fact that they _look_ human is going to make any Klingon patrol they come across paint them with a big, fat target mark. The Klingons take a dim view on unwanted visitors at the best of times. 

 

And Khan's sitting in the _Bug's_ pilot seat as though he owns it. That, more than anything, grates. “Move,” Jim snaps, grabbing him by the biceps and shoving. “Your seat's over _there_.” Khan shakes the grip off roughly. The look he sends Jim is cold and unfriendly, but after a few seconds, something akin to amusement flashes across his face, and he does move. Jim flops into the pilot seat. “Go put a different shirt on. Take one of mine.” 

 

“Why?”

 

Jim eyes the little, silver Starfleet insignia printed on Khan's shirt. “Because that's the first thing the Klingons will aim for.” And right now he's in the mood to let them. He takes manual control of his ship, unsettled, angry, filled with nervous energy. This is _such_ a bad idea. The _Bug_ is cloaked, and with an enormous portion of luck, they might not run into a patrol at all. Still, “Why are we here? Seriously, why?”

 

“I left some things behind the day I surrendered to you on Qo'noS.”

 

Jim stares up at him. “That was ten years ago! And you laid waste to the Klingon patrol back then, in case you forgot – whatever you hid down there, it'll have been discovered by now.”

 

“Why would it be?” With infuriating placidity, Khan strips off his shirt. He isn't looking at Jim at all, watching Qo'noS loom closer and closer as they approach. “The Klingons may be a warring species and renowned for their lust for conquest and archaic rituals, but they are not mindless imbeciles. They do have a military structure. I may have laid waste to one of their patrols, but I seriously doubt nobody reported off-worlders back to base _before_ they hunted down the shuttle you came in. They didn't _have_ to go looking further for more incriminating evidence than what you had already given them.”

 

Something tightens in Jim's belly, crawls up his throat. “What're you saying?”

 

Khan gives him a long, undecipherable look. “I'm saying that shooting the torpedoes at me – with my people in them – would have made no difference from what you did do. Coming after me in a K'morian shuttle might have thrown the Klingons off track, but then you came out guns blazing, so to speak, armed with regulation Starfleet phasers. The Klingon Empire does know its enemies and their weapons.” 

 

He turns and stalks off the bridge. Jim resists the impulse to throw something at his retreating back. Khan's making it sound as though the simple act of flying to Qo'noS and then doing the right thing, spurned on by Spock talking some sense into him, is all the reason the Klingons ever needed to start the war. 

 

And perhaps it was. 

 

God, if only he hadn't been so gun-ho back then. He'd played right into Marcus' hands, storming into the meeting of the admirals, _demanding_ he be the one to go after 'John Harrison'. 

 

Jim swallows down the bile burning on the back of his tongue. Something niggles at the back of his mind, an insistent tick that won't let go. He waits until Khan returns to the bridge, then levels an accusing glare at him. “That's why you went to Qo'noS, isn't it?” They'd never figured out why, of all the planets Khan could have disappeared to, he chose the Klingon home world. With Scotty's trans-warp equation, he could have gone anywhere. He could have left Federation space entirely. Now the connection is suddenly crystal-clear. “You knew Marcus would send someone after you. You purposely chose Qo'noS because you were hoping to...”

 

“To start a war? Yes.” Khan sits down in the co-pilot's seat, tugging one of Jim's shirt on. 

 

Jim sinks back in his seat. “You unbelievable bastard. You sick, cold asshole.” 

 

Khan turns as still as a statue. Whatever goes on behind his pale brow remains locked behind the inscrutable mask that once more slides firmly into place. When he speaks, it's in a low, cold tone. “Marcus made me believe the people I care most for were dead. The Starfleet I was introduced to, forced to work for, was a rotten beehive of corruption sanctioned by bureaucracy. I sought revenge -”

 

“By casting an entire quadrant into war?” Jim's voice rises on a note of stark disbelief. There's a light in Khan's eyes that tells Jim to tread carefully, now. They're right back where they were when Khan said they weren't going to talk 'about this' anymore – but, damn it, Jim can't just ignore something this big.

 

 _And yet, here you are...attempting to emotionally blackmail Spock into releasing Khan, setting out to destroy the Reborn Empire, and you_ know _people will die. And not just a handful. Not just a few dozen. Khan doesn't do things half-assed – give him a spark, and he'll burn the word down. That's why you_ want _him._ The voice in Jim's head sounds, surprisingly, like his own. _So what makes you the good boy, Jimmy? How are you different?_

 

He isn't. He really isn't. He can't claim righteous indignation or moral superiority, not with what the future holds for him, not with what he's prepared to do to see the Reborn crawl. Taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly, Jim calms down. “Yeah, all right. All right. Let's not talk about this anymore.” 

 

Khan says nothing. He sits in the co-pilot's seat, rigidly straight, for the remainder of the approach on Qo'noS. 

 

\- - -

 

Qo'noS is a strange planet. It might have been beautiful once, before over-mining on its moon Praxis resulted in a catastrophe that affected not only the moon itself but also Qo'noS' entire ecosystem. From space, the planet and its smaller traveling companion look like two glass marbles crashing together, the act caught on a slow-motion camera. One day in a not so distant future, Praxis will force the planet out of its natural rotation, causing a global shift in climate, destroying what little flora and fauna still manage to thrive. 

 

For now, there remains a sliver of space between planet and moon, and a fiery sun casts a brilliant halo around both. It's picturesque, a sight to behold, to take the breath away, but Jim's seen it before, and he's much more aware of the threat the _Klingons_ pose than the natural catastrophe taking place at a glacial stage. He can only hope the _Bug's_ cloak will keep them hidden until they've retrieved whatever Khan left behind on the surface of the planet, if it's indeed still there. 

 

Strong winds tug at the ship the second they break the atmospheric barrier and descend toward the dark stretch of ruins. The Ketha Province was abandoned long ago, in the wake of a sweeping plague that ravaged the region and was put out ruthlessly by the Klingons. It's a post-apocalyptic land of deserted buildings now, gnawed on by Qo'noS' unforgiving elements. 

 

With a sleepwalker's ease, Jim finds the spot where, ten years ago, a Klingon patrol forced him to land a shuttle. Traces of the battle can still be seen in the husks of Klingon cruisers lying scorched and broken between the rubble. 

 

There's a bit of more open ground a few hundred yards to the west. Jim lands the _Bug_. “I'm coming with you,” he announces, getting up as Khan does. 

 

“Strategic mistake,” Khan informs him flatly. “If a patrol does pass through the area, one of us should be on the ship.”

 

“I'm coming with you,” Jim repeats. He's not comfortable with the idea of leaving Khan out of sight. “Let's go.”

 

It's clear Khan doesn't approve, but he doesn't make any further comments. Together, they leave the ship. The wind isn't as rough down on the surface of the planet, but the air smells of decay, a pungent, sweet rot. Whenever a stronger gust of wind comes whistling around the corners, it carries flakes of ash. The Klingons literally burned the Ketha Province to the ground in their battle against the plague. Jim's glad for the heavy jacket he put on. The collar provides him with something to breathe through. 

 

Khan doesn't appear to notice the stench or the ash, heading away from the _Bug_ at a fast pace. Following behind him, Jim wonders if there's much at all that really bothers him, or if it all just falls by the wayside. He's never seen Khan sleep or eat. If Jim's just a 'shadow copy' of a true Augment, it begs the question what Khan is capable of physically, aside from dishing out some truly amazing damage with his bare hands. Jim already knows about Khan's razor-blade mind, but he's curious about the rest. 

 

And what better time to ask than now, when they can be discovered by Klingons at any minute? Jim catches up to the other man, noting they're making a wide circle around the site where the initial battle took place. “Explain this augment repair thing to me.”

 

“I would think it is self-explanatory.” At Jim's vague shrug, Khan launches into a more detailed explanation. “The body shuts down non-vital functions and concentrates on repairing the damage it sustained.”

 

“Staying awake is a non-vital function?”

 

“Staying awake tends to lead to moving around, and that means an expenditure of energy and resources that are of better use elsewhere, in case of injury.” Khan frowns at a piece of rubble. “You took more damage in our fight than you probably were aware of. You slept for a very long time.”

 

Jim remembers his ribs moving of their own accord, and that curiously detached knowledge of non-debilitating pain, the way it had drawn attention to _where_ the injuries were, but not how _bad_ they were. His stomach chooses that moment to rumble insistently, reminding him of the gnawing hunger he woke up to. Suspiciously, he asks, “How long was I out, anyway?”

 

“29 hours.”

 

Damn. He's about to jokingly thank Khan for not murdering him while he lay helpless and unaware, when the fact that Khan _didn't_ murder him while Jim was in no position to defend himself impresses itself upon him with startling clarity. He isn't certain what it means. Khan gained access to the _Bug's_ computers without his input. Although an official declaration of working together still hasn't been made, Khan seems to have at least the beginnings of a plan in mind and as a result of that, they're now on Qo'noS. 

 

Khan doesn't _need_ him, and for the first few hours after discovering the extent of the second Dreadnought attack on New Vulcan, Jim would have been perfectly all right with just letting Khan loose, regardless of what happened to himself. With or without company, Khan's going to deliver one hell of a wake-up call to the Reborn. 

 

They're squeezing through a narrow crack between two walls when Jim's mind makes an intuitive leap. _You do need me, or you would have killed me already,_ he thinks. _But for what? Bait? And why didn't you try to kill me right after Ann beamed you onto my ship?_

 

Questions for another time. In front of him, Khan crouches where the still-standing walls of a building and the remains of a roof provide a protective triangle against the wind and prying eyes. The ground is dry, hard-packed dirt. After a bit of digging with both hands, Khan uncovers the lid of a large, flat metal box. It's engraved with the official Starfleet logo. 

 

“What's in there?”

 

“I'll show you once we're back aboard the ship,” Khan mutters, digging around the box. “The equipment inside is delicate. I would rather not expose it to the wind and the pollutants.”

 

Jim eyes the box. “How did you manage to transport that here?” The box is large enough that it wouldn't have fit in the cockpit of the jumpship Khan used to attack the San Francisco headquarters, back then. 

 

“Designing weapons and warships wasn't the only task Marcus assigned me,” Khan explains, monotonous. “It wasn't my first trip to Qo'noS, the day I escaped from Earth via the trans-warp beaming device.” He stops digging for a moment and sits back on his heels. “I was in Marcus' service for almost a year. Once he understood I would not do anything to jeopardize my crew, he kept me on a long leash. How else do you think I managed to work on the torpedoes to hide my people in them? Marcus thought he had me collared.”

 

Jim doesn't bother to hold back a derisive snort. “Collared, you? I'm beginning to wonder just how far gone into his megalomaniac scheme Marcus really was.” He'd known Khan for less than a day to understand that 'giving up' wasn't included in Khan's vocabulary. And Marcus had let him roam free? Incredible. 

 

“Marcus wasn't insane, if that is what you're thinking. It's a common error of the mighty to assume, once they've reached the top, that their reign will remain uncontested.” Khan glances at the box, frowning again. He looks to be a thousand years away, for a minute, then gives himself a small shake. “This would go faster if you helped dig. I am not eager to remain here longer than I have to.” 

 

“Yeah, me too.” Jim kneels on the other side to help. It takes a few minutes until they can lift the box between them; the thing turns out to be surprisingly heavy. Glass and metal clinks inside as they had back to the _Bug_. Whenever the box tilts a bit when they move over uneven ground, there's an ominous sound of liquid sloshing in containers. “It's not a bomb, is it?”

 

Khan gives him an even look. “Something better.”

 

They get back to the ship without interruptions. Jim leaves Khan in the cargo area, making his way to the bridge. Without further input from Khan, he sets course on Orion again, then remains tense and alert in the pilot seat until Qo'noS is a comfortable seven thousand kilometers behind them. They're still in Klingon space, but Jim feels it's safe to drop the ship's cloak and engage the warp drive. 

 

Then he coaxes an ungodly amount of food from the synthesizer in the lounge. He's ravenous to the point where his stomach cramps with each rumble. It's probably a side-effect of that augment thing, his body craving to replenish the energy used up in repairing damage. Wolfing down a plate of meat and vegetables – a drop of water on a hot stone – he gets another plate, pasta and more meat, and eats slowly. 

 

And then, because he's suddenly curious, he orders a third and fourth plate, and carries them into the cargo area. Khan's sitting cross-legged in front of the open box, pulling out one item after another and lining them up on the floor: smallish pieces of equipment that have a medical look to them, racks with glass vials, tubing, something that's definitely an extractor, PaDDs. 

 

Jim eyes the assortment. Nothing there looks like it could spontaneously explode in their faces, but it's Khan, so a faint thread of worry remains. On the other hand, the box and its contents are on the _Bug_ , so it's too late to start bitching _now_. Jim takes a seat on the floor, extending one of the plates toward Khan. “Want?”

 

The offered plate – chunks of meat, potato slices – receives a narrow-eyed look. “No.”

 

With an internal shrug, Jim sets the plate on the floor between them. More for him, then. “Do you eat at all?”

 

“Yes.” Khan pulls a flat, rounded metal container from the box, fingers probing along the seam of the lid. “I also sleep. I plan to indulge in both once I've verified the contents of the box have survived their ten-year stay on Qo'noS without damage.” 

 

Jim points a chicken leg at said box. “Do I want to know what all this is?”

 

“When I fled from Earth, my intention was to cause as much damage as possible. I was hoping my actions in San Francisco would be enough to draw a Starfleet vessel to Qo'noS, to get the Klingons involved. I knew Marcus was going to send someone after me, or come personally. If he hadn't, I would have resorted to my second plan. Then you showed up,” Khan makes brief eye contact, “and I had to change plans entirely.” 

 

Jim lowers the chicken leg back onto his plate. “What second plan?”

 

Khan pries the lid off the metal container and pulls out a thin glass vial, barely as long as his little finger. The liquid inside is milky, shimmering with floating crystalline particles. “This. Aerosol dispersal. It will have to be modified now, of course.”

 

Jim's suddenly not hungry anymore. He's learned to be vary around things that come in glass vials, and the phrase 'aerosol dispersal' really leaves only a few possibilities. “Chemical weapon? A virus?”

 

“A pathogen derived from the deadliest strain of the Tellurian plague. Obviously, it is now obsolete.” Khan holds the vial up against the light, face blank. “I will need better equipment than this to test -”

 

“Hold on just one damn second.” Jim stares at the other man. “You're saying that if Marcus _hadn't_ sent anyone after you, you would have come back to Earth and...what? Killed us all? With this?”

 

“My plan was to release it through the air shafts at headquarters. It is odorless, it would not have shown up on any scanners.” Khan drops his hand into his lap, the vial cradled in his palm. 

 

“It's a virus,” Jim points out. “It would have spread.”

 

“I know.”

 

Jim swallows dryly and tries to be upset, but the anger doesn't come. All he can think is that for someone who had to have been operating under a considerable amount of stress, Khan had not only come up with one but _two_ plans to exact his revenge. And that second plan had been horrible, so wrong, and ten years ago, hell, just a week ago, Jim would have protested and raged. 

 

But now? All he feels now is a shivery thread of appreciation for the way Khan's mind works. It should horrify him; instead, Jim thinks it's _brilliant_. It's still wrong, but not wrong enough. “So you can modify this? Change it so it will affect the Reborn?”

 

“With the right equipment. I assume you set course for Orion?” At Jim's nod, Khan returns the vial to its metal container and carefully closes the lid. “I should find what I need there.” He cocks his head at Jim, studying him intently. “I do, however, also plan on finding my people before I release anything into Earth's atmosphere.”

 

He wouldn't be Khan if that somehow wasn't part of the plan. “That's good. Real good. Because I plan on finding mine.” Jim owes Scotty and Sulu that much. Even if they've been put through vaccination by now, he has to at least try to rescue them. He may have lost the last shreds of reservation towards the Reborn, but he'll do right by his friends – and if there are other, non-altered people left on Earth, perhaps even the colonists kidnapped from New Vulcan and the other planets, he wants to rescue them, too. 

 

“So. Let's make a deal. You work on that virus,” Jim nods at the metal container, “and then we're going to look for our people. Yours, and mine.”

 

“Acceptable.”

 

“No tricks. No treachery,” Jim says firmly. When Khan doesn't answer at once, just looks at him, he sighs noisily. “Look. Starfleet's gone. It's dead, all right? Not the way you planned, but your blood killed it, in a way. And I get that you hate my guts, I do. I'm not even denying we fucked up back then. But so did you. Can we agree on just this one thing? We work together. There'll be plenty of time _after_ that for you to come up with some ingenious plan to gruesomely murder me, and I'll try to come up with some clever idea to stop you. But the Reborn _first_. Deal?” 

 

Khan nods slowly. He's still looking at Jim as though he's trying to figure out a puzzle, but Jim isn't bothered by it. He knows he's changed – not for the better, but you can't go through hell without paying the prize. 

 

On a whim, he extends his hand. The way Khan responds by extending his own so very slowly almost makes Jim grin. He'd tell Khan he doesn't bite, but that would only earn him a dislocated shoulder or worse. When their hands touch, though, Jim gets a surprise: Khan slides his palm further up and grips Jim's forearm instead. For a second, his face twists, the mask slipping to show rawness. 

 

“This is how we used to do it,” Khan says. 

 

Jim barely has time to mirror the archaic gesture. The moment passes. Khan pulls his hand away and the shutters come down. “I will eat, then sleep,” he announces, turning back to the large box. 

 

Jim can still feel the imprints of Khan's fingers on his arm, long minutes after Khan's done sorting everything back into the box and walked out.

 

\- - -

 

Thanks to the unplanned side trip to Qo'noS, the journey to the Orion system will take 47 hours now, even at warp. They got the bare bones of a plan out of it, though, so Jim's not going to complain. Khan spends an hour in the lounge, making frequent trips between food synthesizer and table, putting away more food than Jim thinks anyone could eat without doing some serious damage to their plumbing, then lays claim to Jim's bed. 

 

Jim does complain about that. 

 

“And where would you like to me sleep?” Khan asks testily, sitting on the edge of the bed and working his boots off. “I will not sleep on the floor. Or on that abomination you call a couch.”

 

Before Jim can come up with an answer, Khan stretches out. He lies like he stands: perfectly straight, arms at his sides. If he crossed them over his chest, he'd look like a mummy. 

 

“Maybe we could just lean you into a corner,” Jim mutters, watching him. “Seriously, do you ever relax?”

 

“Good night.”

 

“C'mon, at least sprawl a little. I'm getting a backache just watching -”

 

“Good night, _captain_.”

 

“How many times do I have to repeat myself? I'm not...oh, fuck it.” Jim throws his hands up and stomps out. Just to be an ass about it, he leaves the door open. “I hope you get nightmares.”

 

Khan's long, tired sigh follows Jim out into the corridor. “I don't have to close my eyes for that.” Jim turns around, but Khan isn't looking at him. He's staring at the ceiling. “I promised them a new life. Now look where my promise stranded them, if they are even still alive.”

 

No need to ask whom Khan's talking about. Jim returns to stand in the doorway, unsettled but also curious. Remorse isn't something he ever expected to see from Khan, but it's undeniably there. Jim just doesn't know what to do with it. The man is a strange dichotomy, displaying human longing, bitterness, and in this moment, a regret so raw it's palpable. On the other hand, Khan is perfectly capable of starting wars, crashing star ships into cities, and he _did_ rule a quarter of Earth, at one point in distant history. 

 

And then, there's still that bit where Spock accused Khan of being a genocidal maniac. 

 

That part in particular doesn't add up. Jim's done his research – he's read up on Khan's history, gleaned as much information as the data archives would yield. Know your enemy and all that, but even back then in the hospital, when he eventually did want to know more about the man whose blood had saved his life, Jim had come across passages that clearly contradicted Spock's words on the _Enterprise_. 

 

Unsure if he isn't just poking his finger right into a hornet nest, Jim leans in the doorway. “Explain something to me. If you had won back then – if you'd gotten your crew back, shot down the _Enterprise_ – what would your next step have been? Would you really have declared war on mankind? Eradicated us because we're less than superior?”

 

The answer comes without delay. “Yes.”

 

“Why?” Jim moves a step into the room. “Is that something built into your genes? Because I don't think it is. You ruled a part of Earth at one point.” At Khan's glance of mild interest, Jim waves a hand. “I read up on your history. What little bit I could find, anyway. Most books on the Eugenics Wars are on the index.”

 

Khan smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. “Are you going to accuse me of being a mass murderer, again?”

 

Jim frowns. “No, and that's my point. I mean, yes, you killed all those people in San Francisco and London and on my ship, but I'm talking about the past. The other tyrants were genocidal assholes. You didn't do that. There was no ethnic cleansing in your corner of the planet. And then Marcus wakes you, and you suddenly change stripes. So, what changed your mind?”

 

Khan's gaze resettles on the ceiling. For a moment, it looks like he isn't going to answer Jim at all, his expression shuttered. “Even if we'd gotten away, I knew Starfleet would never leave us in peace. Even with Marcus out of the picture, Section 31 would have done everything possible to retrieve us, pressure us back into service, or kill us to cover up Marcus' involvement. I would not have allowed that to happen.”

 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Jim sighs. “I can see where this is going. Preemptive war?” It's actually a reasoning Jim can understand. “Kill them before they hurt your family?”

 

“Yes.” Khan levels a sideways glance at Jim. “Captain, I don't know how to make myself any clearer than I already have. I would literally burn down the galaxy to see my people safe. If you want to call that genocide or ethnic cleansing, I will put up no argument.” He releases a long breath, folding his hands over his belly, and looks away. “Clearly, your First Officer found some information about the 20th century Augments and extrapolated from there. I saw no sense in correcting his assumption – his _wrong_ assumption – about one aspect of my past, and I had no reason to justify anything to him.”

 

Jim chews on his lip. “So, when this is over...” He walks to the edge of the bed, looking down at Khan. “Let's say we're successful. We find your people, and mine. The Reborn Empire goes down. Then what?”

 

Khan lifts an eyebrow. “Isn't it a bit too late to worry about that now?” A faint sneer tugs on his lips. “You already let me out of my cage. Pandora's Box is open.”

 

“I still want to know.” Jim holds the pale, piercing gaze. “If we're lucky – no, wait, let me rephrase that: if _I'm_ lucky, there'll still be non-altered humans on Earth.” Like Scotty, and Sulu, and the colonists. “Then what?”

 

“Then, nothing.” The sneer fades, replaced by something closer to actual annoyance. “I'm not a monster, captain. I can be. I don't have to be.” He lifts himself to his elbows. “But give me a reason, and I'll hound you to into the light of day.”

 

Jim considers the threat. “That's good enough for me.” He steps away, calls out, “Lights, twenty percent,” and makes his way to the door. “Sweet dreams.”

 


	5. FIVE

\- - -

 

**CHAPTER FIVE**

 

\- - -

 

Orion's capital sprawls over the entirety of a shoe-shaped landmass poking into a sapphire green ocean. The weather is pleasant all year 'round, mild winters seamlessly flowing into a short spring followed by long, hot summers. Fall turns the primordial forests further inland into a riot of colors; 'Beetle Season', the Orions call it, the month when millions of tiny, iridescent insects turn the forest ground into a moving carpet, crunchy underfoot and very, very poisonous. 

 

The capital's name is Veenegri. It translates to 'city by the sea' in the Orion language; it is a rather poetic name for a city that's known as 'Den of Depravity' to the rest of the galaxy. Rising gradually from suburbs sprawling over rolling hills landwards, Veenegri's busiest center crouches on the edge of a steep cliff sea-side. Skyscrapers, housing projects and colorful markets form a labyrinthine beehive teeming with activity. Veenegri's Thaay District, named after a famous concubine of ages past, attracts traders, tourists and shadier characters from every corner of the Alpha Quadrant. 

 

It is the perfect place to get lost in, or to find something. Veenegri is not a _nice_ city. The Orions are, at their core, traders and traffickers. Their society is a curious mix of warp-standard technology and age-old traditions bordering on the barbaric. They sell what can be sold: goods both manufactured or alive. 90% of all slave trades in the Alpha Quadrant are firmly in the hands of the Orion Syndicate, unarguably the largest known criminal organization. 

 

For centuries, the Orions have subtly influenced commercial endeavors everywhere, while carefully maintaining a front of neutrality toward the Federation. Veenegri is a free-for-all paradise, a haven unrestricted by federal law. The Orions have no official government. Order is maintained through an intricate web of trade relations, customer goodwill and the going rates of credits. 

 

From the top floor of the Seaside Hotel, the view of the Thaay District is breathtaking. The wind is cooler up here, sharper, carrying the scent of salt water and rot. 105 floors above street level, Jim can still hear the noise generated by the throngs of people clogging up the meandering streets. He's glad for the distance between himself and the chaos down there. He went out for a bit of shopping earlier, came back sweaty, tired and mildly paranoid. He's not used to crowds anymore. 

 

Used to be; it wasn't a party at Starfleet Academy until James T. Kirk made an appearance. 

 

He's older now, set apart: the bars and brothels of the Thaay District don't draw him. Neither do the slave auctions, unashamedly taking place in broad daylight, on carefully constructed stages in the market places. The sight of voluptuous Orion women paraded around in skimpy clothes, delicate chains around their wrists, ankles and necks does nothing for him, all the more – or less – since he knows who _really_ holds the power on Orion. He doesn't know if his augmented body can break down the dangerous pheromones emanated by Orion women, powerful enough to send the males of many species into a near-mindless susceptibility to outside influence; he's not crazy enough to risk it.

 

The sound of soft footfall penetrates Jim's aimless woolgathering. “Captain.” Khan stops at the threshold between their suite and the balcony, extractor in hand. “I need more blood.”

 

Heaving a purely internal sigh, Jim steps away from the balcony's rail, abandoning his view of the Thaay District for one that's become increasingly more familiar with each passing day: Khan Noonien Singh, waiting for him to extend his arm. 

 

They've been on Orion for a week now. It took Khan exactly one and a half days to order the necessary equipment online, to turn their suite's kitchen into a laboratory. Thankfully, Orion establishments like the Seaside Hotel value their guests' privacy almost as much as they value their guests' credits; unless they commit gruesome, ceiling-dripping murders up here, they'll be left alone – and Jim's not sure even murder would get the Orion hotel staff to bat an eyelash. 

 

Orion is _that_ kind of planet, after all. It's exactly why Jim chose to come here, for the preparations of their attack on the Reborn Empire. 

 

“You could always use your own, you know?” Jim passes from warm afternoon sun into the decidedly cooler sitting room of their suite. He doesn't mind giving up a few vials of blood if it helps their cause, but so far, not a day has gone by when Khan _didn't_ stand before him with an extractor, giving him an expectant look. Today, the request grates on already thrumming nerves, kindling a spark of rebellion. 

 

“I could,” Khan agrees. “I already told you why I won't.”

 

They've been through this particular argument. Jim's genetic make-up is the closest to a Reborn's they can get a hold of, unless a Reborn turns up at one of the slave auctions. The strain of the Tellurian plague Khan is working on needs to be altered to affect a chemistry engineered to nullify viral and bacterial attacks. Khan could use his own blood to experiment on, but he'd likely come up with something that ends up wiping out all life on Earth, including his own people. Naturally, that's something Khan wants to avoid. 

 

Jim surrenders his arm. It's somewhat amusing to consider that Khan's current work is aimed at _watering down_ the deadly pathogen. “Why do you need so much of it?”

 

“I'm working on twelve samples at the same time.” The extractor finds its mark on the soft skin on the inside of Jim's arm. The procedure itself is painless, registers as pressure. Jim's more aware of Khan's hand cupping his elbow, the warmth of palm and long fingers against his skin. When the vial cradled in the extractor's casing is full, Khan switches it for an empty one dexterously. 

 

The serenity of the situation is surreal. Here they are, in the heart of Orion space, the pleasure center of the Alpha Quadrant, and they are – or Khan is – cooking up a plague. If only the thrill-seeking crowd outside on the streets knew. 

 

Jim's gaze wanders over the sitting room and its lavish furnishing, its choice pieces of art displayed to their best effects on small pedestals, the plush carpet. The Seaside Hotel was built to cater to foreign tourist tastes specifically, and whoever designed the place decided all humans like decadence. Jim's never been surrounded by so much luxury in all his life before. The tub in the bathroom is large enough to fit six people. The bedroom is a wet dream of soft pillows, firm mattresses and velvet curtains. There's a separate lounge dedicated entirely to an elaborate electronic playground, with wall-spanning holo-screens playing the newest movies and computer terminals cleverly disguised by handcrafted furniture, granting access to the Alpha Quadrant's online markets. 

 

They even have their personal servant, a quiet Orion male named Gerun, who caters to their every whim. So far, it's just been opulent meals sent up by way of the elevator, but Jim's sure if he mentioned a craving for company of some sort, Gerun would make it happen. 

 

But all in all, Jim is _bored_ and it's beginning to evolve into frustration with every passing day. Luxury is fine and good, but there's only so many baths he can take, to while away the time, and so many movies he can watch, to numb his brain. Conversation has boiled down to the once-a-day demand for blood and non-committal grunts when Jim announces he ordered breakfast/lunch/dinner. The angry momentum that carried him from New Vulcan into space, hell-bent on revenge, is petering out. 

 

He hadn't anticipated that the manufacturing process of a deadly pathogen would take quite this long. 

 

“How can you stand this?” he mutters. “I'm going crazy.” He wiggles his fingers, brushing against the soft material of Khan's shirt. “Give me something to do.”

 

Khan watches the third vial fill with blood, unaffected by Jim's finger-wiggling. “There is an entire planet for you to entertain yourself with.”

 

“Yeah, Orion pheromones, great.” Jim manages to snag a hold on a bit of shirt. He's willing to annoy Khan into another bout of spontaneous violence, just to take the edge off of his bad mood. Right now, sleeping another 29 hours sounds like the greatest thing ever. At least the time would pass without him being aware of it. 

 

A frown appears between Khan's eyebrows. “Stop that.” He tightens his hold on Jim's arm, sending him a warning look. “You aren't blind, captain. Orion offers more than its female indigenous population. Should that fail to hold your interest, start thinking about how we are going to gain access to Earth.”

 

Jim rolls his eyes. He's done that. The problem is that he doesn't have much to work with: they can hardly just fly up to Earth, magically avoid the perimeter sensors, and land on the Academy campus. Jim doesn't even know if there still _is_ an Academy campus. Information about Earth's current defenses is hard to come by; the planet is there, and a fleet of Dreadnoughts protects it. No one knows more than that. 

 

If only they had Scotty's trans-warp beaming device. Jim's inquired into that, too, to no avail; the groundbreaking technology was never serialized after Khan used it to hop halfway across the galaxy, from Earth to Qo'noS. 

 

“Spar with me,” Jim suggests. “C'mon.”

 

“I'm certain you can find an establishment offering that, too,” Khan points out. He pulls the extractor's tip out of Jim's arm, glancing down to where Jim still has a hold of his shirt. “Let go.”

 

Jim bares his teeth in a fake smile. “Hmm.” The cesspool mix of boredom, frustration and impatience, stirred to overflowing by today's shopping trip where he ended up being pushed around by the crowd, threatens to boil over. He's never been very good at keeping a lid on his emotions; recent events haven't contributed to keeping a stable state of mind. He needs _something_ to distract himself with. “No.”

 

Khan's mouth twitches. “Captain.”

 

“My name is _Jim_ , damn it!” Jim snaps, yanking on Khan's shirt. “You can stop with the fucking 'captain' bullshit, I haven't -”

 

The next thing Jim's aware of is his cheek against the plush carpet. He doesn't know how he ended up on the floor, flat on his belly. Khan's knee is shoving his head hard against the floor, the other pressed into the small of Jim's back. With unerring strength, Khan is bending Jim's left arm up behind his back, against the joint. 

 

“Do you know how wars are won, _captain_?” Khan sounds bland, bored, but there's an edge in his tone of voice. From his current position, Jim can't see his face. He can't even reach him with his free hand, as he's lying on that arm, their combined weight keeping the limb where it is. “Patience. Planning. Execution.” Khan jerks Jim's left arm up another inch. The tendons in that shoulder twinge in warning. “I don't believe you are capable of any of the three.”

 

“Get off me, asshole,” Jim snarls, tasting carpet fiber. He tries to shove Khan off, but he's too well trapped. 

 

“I'm going to drop you off the balcony, if you don't behave,” Khan threatens. “Perhaps that will do enough damage to _entertain_ you.”

 

And he sounds like he means it, too. Jim changes tack, letting himself go lax. It takes effort – real effort, because right now he wants nothing more than another round of 'destroy the lounge'. God, the colonists are on Earth, and he's with Khan on Orion, and making that damn plague is taking _ages_. “I just,” he begins, and yelps in alarm, something in his shoulder beginning to tear, “Damn it! Stop!”

 

Khan does stop. He lets go of Jim's arm. The knees keeping Jim pinned to the floor – that bastard was literally kneeling _on_ him – vanish. Jim rolls himself onto his side, discovering Khan somehow made it to the other side of the sitting room, extractor and blood vials in hand. 

 

Khan's expression is stormy. “Care to explain what got into you?”

 

“My friends are on Earth,” Jim presses out, carefully moving his shoulder. “We are _here_ , and -”

 

“So are my people,” Khan says coldly. He brandishes the extractor. “Do you think I am doing this to amuse myself? Go away. Go out. Drink, fuck, fight, do whatever it is you do, but do it somewhere else. Don't give me a reason to consider you a threat to my work here. I _will_ cause real damage, next time you annoy me.”

 

The old-fashioned wood door slams in Khan's wake before Jim can even formulate a reply. With a groan, he rolls onto his back, prodding his shoulder. Not broken. Something torn, possibly, muscle or ligament. He can't fucking tell, but at least nothing crunches when he rotates his arm. Adrenaline still hammering through his veins, Jim curses under his breath, his head pounding with frustration. 

 

Something else pounds, too, chaffs against his fly with insistence. 

 

Jim stares at the ceiling, chaotic thoughts grinding to a stuttering halt. He's hard. All his blood is rushing south – _such_ a cliché, but oh so true, leaving him dry-mouthed and gasping for breath through constricting airways. He has an erection for the first time in what feels like forever, and even as he shoves a hand down into his crotch to palm himself through the stiff fabric of his pants, he wishes he didn't. 

 

Have one, that is. 

 

Getting a boner after a brawl is a perfectly healthy reaction; getting one because Khan Noonien Singh knelt on him and threatened him just adds insult to injury, literally. Jim's horn dog days are long in the past, his libido crushed under personal upheaval and tamed by lack of opportunity, lack of time, lack of _interest_. He's 36 now, for fuck's sake, no longer chasing everything that hadn't climbed a tree at the count of five. 

 

And, _Khan_.

 

Jim wills the unwanted erection away, even if it aches on levels he's scarcely felt before. He thinks of Chekov, disintegrating while the golden lights of the transporter whisked Jim, Spock and McCoy away to safety. He thinks of McCoy, swallowing that gun when his ex-wife was among the people who made it off Earth, but his daughter _wasn't_. He thinks of blood and guts, strewn over the glass-littered floor of the Daystrom Conference Room, Chris Pike's unseeing, dead-eyed stare, the closest thing Jim ever had to a father reduced to cooling flesh and smoking phaser wounds. 

 

Bile rises in the back of his throat. All right. _Enough of that_. 

 

He rolls over, curls up, inhales, exhales: he's fine. He will be fine. He's just been cooped up for too long, too much on his mind but nothing to do, and he's definitely not going to have a nervous breakdown over something as inconsequential as getting a hard-on. Khan's attractive, sure, but so what? Doesn't mean Jim wants to jump him, and honestly, he's gone without physical contact so long that it's no real surprise he reacted like he did. 

 

It still feels like an eternity passes until Jim can push himself upright, frustration and temper bleeding away, making room for a hollow feeling of anger. He needs some air. The balcony door is open, Orion's sky azure blue, but Jim doesn't feel like staying in the hotel suite; there's no telling if he won't just pick up right where Khan left off, next time he runs into the other man. Somehow, it always ends in violence. 

 

_Drink, fuck, fight, do whatever it is you do, but do it somewhere else._

 

Good advice, that. 

 

\- - -

 

_The woman is a wreck. She might have been beautiful once, before Section 31 got a hold of her, but now she's dark skin stretched over bone, muscle and fat burned away by the rigorous schedule they keep her on. Ellis has seen the video footage of the earlier experimental stages, when 'Ann' had just been unfrozen, and wonders how they, how anyone, could be so cold and just watch this slow deterioration of a human being without being eaten alive by shame._

 

 _When Ellis looks at Ann, it's all he can do not to bow his head and beg forgiveness. He's not foolish enough to believe she'd accept it, his apology, or grant him forgiveness. The things that have been done to her_ cannot _be excused, regardless of whatever crimes Ann committed, 300 years ago._

 

_No sentient being deserves being treated like a walking, talking lab rat._

 

_Ann is kept on a high-security floor on the 10 th sub-level of the San Francisco Medical Center of Genetics, in a spacious but bare room. She has a mattress on the floor to sleep on. There's a toilet bowl in one corner, without any means to protect her privacy. She doesn't have any windows or anything to occupy herself with. An entire squad of security guards is stationed down here just for her. _

 

_Ann has killed seven people, since they woke her up. Doctors, mostly, but also two guards, idiots who ignored the security protocols, overlooked the bottomless rage the woman lives in, overlaid by deceptive calm. Ann may be a prisoner, but she hasn't given up; Ann is going to die soon, if they don't give her body a chance to catch up to the damage wrought by surgeries, the frequent drain of blood, the viral strains they test on her immune system, but she's not going to do down without a fight._

 

_Ellis admires her, for that. He might be a little bit in love with her – not the romantic cliché of the doctor falling in love with one of his patients, but the careful adoration of a man faced with a dangerous predator, mixed unpleasantly with a dash of pity reserved for zoo animals behind bars, where they don't belong._

 

_He wants to set her free._

 

_It's not part of the plan. They managed to rid Earth of several high-ranking Section 31 officials, carefully, slowly, one at a time. Admiral Kerensky, during her vaccination. Admirals Cho and Braun, also during vaccination. Phillip Bars, administrative supervisor, in a jumpship accident in Europe. The research facility in Zimbabwe burned down when an old, forgotten mine collapsed underneath it; a month ago, freedom fighters destroyed another facility on Hawaii._

 

_But time is running out. They can't be too obvious about whom they're getting rid of, or someone's going to connect the dots, sooner or later. Admiral Braddock, unofficially the leader of the quiet, secretive revolt against the Reborn, was forced to flee Earth last week; Ellis is now the only conspirator capable of getting to the Augments, the source._

 

_Initially, he was supposed to kill them._

 

_He can't._

 

_39 out of 73 Augments never woke up; they died during the thawing process. Section 31 never figured out what went wrong – until the very end, thawing remained the hit-or-miss gamble. Six of the test subjects had to be put down in acts of mercy killings. Eleven went down fighting. Sixteen are kept separate from each other, in carefully guarded rooms like Ann's. Some of them are in even worse shape than her._

 

_One was never woken. That one still sleeps, unaware of the slow death of his people around him._

 

 _Ellis_ knows _what they did, on Earth, these Augments. He knows about the tyrants. He knows about the ethnic cleansing that scoured entire countries, 300 years ago. During her tenure as the head of Section 31, Admiral Kerensky made sure that everyone who worked under her had unrestricted access to books, treatises and every other shred of information about the Eugenics Wars. Ellis is certain Kerensky did it to further dehumanize the Augments, to break down her scientists' reserve._

 

_Ann's poor physical state is evidence enough for how well Kerensky's plan worked._

 

_It takes months for Ellis to work himself into everyone's good graces, until he finally manages to catch Ann alone, a scant time-window of a few minutes during the shift change of her guards. As a result of her failing health, one of the incisions of Ann's latest surgery becomes infected, and Ellis takes his sweet time treating the wound, taking skin samples, doing more than he should. The two guards loitering in the open doorway to Ann's room watch with little interest while Ellis hovers around her._

 

_When the men are suitably distracted by the guards coming on duty, he murmurs, “Not everyone on Earth is a monster.” Ann's black eyes remain fixed on the ceiling, staring directly at the undisguised security camera in its protective glass fishbowl. He has to whisper, to keep his voice at a level where Ellis himself can barely hear it. “I'll set you free. What do you need?”_

 

_Ann's reply is a mere sigh, her lips barely moving. “Khan.”_

 

_Behind them, at the door, the shift change is finished. Ellis raises his voice, just a little. “Well, just stop scratching, or I'm going to have you strapped to the mattress, understand?” He prods the long, brightly red and wetting incision scar down her belly with gloved fingertips. “You're not scheduled for further tests for three days. You should be ready, then.”_

 

 _Ann's mouth twitches into a caricature of a smile. “Yes,_ sir. _” She doesn't even look at him, makes the honorific sound like an insult._

 

_Ellis gets back to his feet, grabbing his kit, looking around to make sure he doesn't leave anything behind. The new guards stand at attention, avidly watching. “Everything all right, doc?” one of them asks, when Ellis is ready to leave. “Her ladyship give you any trouble?”_

 

“ _Nah.” Ellis rolls his eyes. “Her usual, brooding, psychopathic self.”_

 

 _They laugh. He laughs. Where did Section 31_ find _them, these men and women, who can stand by and watch a life being destroyed? Where does this savagery come from, the very trait the Augments are condemned for, now so readily apparent in the people Ellis works with on a daily basis?_

 

_Three days later, during night shift, Ellis releases a computer virus into the San Francisco Medical Center of Genetics' databanks, one he fed and stored in the system weeks ago. It plays havoc with the security protocols and sends the entire night crew into a frenzy. Doors and vaults open at random intervals, to parts of the building supposed to be kept locked at all times. The lights flicker and go out as the infrastructure of the internal damage control sub-routines eats itself under the onslaught of requests caused by the virus._

 

_Ellis remains in his office, pretending to be asleep, until the first phaser shots ring out over the open intercom system, followed by shrill screams. Then he runs out into the corridor, hastily dragging on his lab coat. At the turbolift, he runs into a cluster of nervous-looking scientists and a handful of guards. “What the hell is going on?”_

 

“ _We don't know, sir.” One of the guards, pale-faced and wide-eyed, keeps pushing the manual button for the lift, although the computer panel indicates it's stuck somewhere between the first and second floors. “We've had a facility-wide alert. Something's gone wrong. The Augments got free -”_

 

“ _Oh my god!” Ellen Carson, Chief Virologist and a member of Ellis' team, retreats nervously. “I'm going back to my office. I'm locking myself in. If those nutcases are running around free, there's no way I'm going to go down there.”_

 

“ _Ma'am,” the guard tries, over the mutter of agreements following Carson's words, “we should – everyone, please remain calm, there's no reason -”_

 

_An explosion rocks the foundation of the facility._

 

\- - -

 

Jim goes out and gets drunk.

 

That's his plan, at least; naturally, he cannot _get_ drunk. His body breaks down the alcohol too fast for him to even get a pleasant buzz going. What he gets is a full bladder and a fist fight with an abnormally tall humanoid occupying the single stall in the men's room of the dive Jim ended up in. 

 

Naturally, he wins. Packed tightly between two hulk-like Orion doormen, he's escorted out of the bar, ears ringing from the cajoling shouts and the applause of the establishment's other guests, who witnessed the fight. He's a foreigner, so he's not arrested, but he does get a hissed warning that _next time, scum, we won't be nice to you, so behave_. 

 

Floating between aggravation – all that money down the drain, and he's not even buzzed – and elation, Jim loiters on the sidewalk. It's early evening and the streets are packed. He's not yet ready to admit defeat, and he doesn't want to go back to the Seaside Hotel, spending the rest of the night in the non-company of Mr. Tall, Dark and Asshole. The Thaay District is at its most beautiful and deadly when night falls, the run-of-the-mill tourists retreating to the safety of their hotel rooms when Orion's shadier population sets foot – or other appendage – out their doors. 

 

He drifts for a bit, letting the push and shove of the crowd dictate where he ends up. It's not so bad now, to be surrounded on all sides like this: Jim's still too angry, too upset about earlier, to heed the subtle warning bells inside his head, which tell him he's _outnumbered, not safe, is that someone's elbow in your ribs or a gun?_

 

Street vendors sidle up to him, offering their wares. He stays away from the drugs, the questionable substances offered in small boxes and bottles and plastic bags, but does buy a bottle of expensively imported Romulan ale. Maybe he can't get drunk, but he can still appreciate the taste. 

 

Somehow, he ends up in another bar, somewhere in the seedier area of the district. A jumble of dissonant sounds pours from an ancient jukebox in a corner, Orion's version of easy-listening music. The green hulk behind the bar, dishtowel thrown over one shoulder, makes for a passable imitation of some of the barkeepers Jim knew on Earth, pouring him whiskey and then leaving the bottle there when Jim slaps a large credit chip on the counter. 

 

To Jim's right, a pair of Coridanites are nursing tall glasses with a fizzing substance in them. To Jim's left, a grizzled-looking Klingon, cranial plate lacking the customary metal jewelery, is giving him a dark glare. “Reborn scum,” the Klingon grunts, draining a tumbler full of something that _oozes_ more than pours past dark, scarred lips. 

 

“Not a Reborn,” Jim lies, and downs his shot of whiskey. “Not looking for a fight, either,” he adds, when the Klingon turns on his creaking bar stool, facing him. Jim estimates him to be at least 6'4 tall. He's broad-shouldered and battle-scarred, wearing the piecemeal remains of Klingon armor mixed up now with nondescript cargo pants and a dirt-stained, sleeveless shirt that shows off bulging, hard muscle under mud-brown skin. A deserter, maybe, or an outcast. “Name's Jack,” Jim lies again, easily. He lifts a finger at the barkeeper, who's watching the exchange with a dubious look on his face. “Tell you what, I'll buy you a drink, and you don't injure me.”

 

The Klingon visibly and with narrowed eyes thinks the offer over. “Fine.”

 

Jim slaps another credit chip down. The barkeeper, probably used to customers negotiating peace over spirits, refills the Klingon's tumbler and leaves the bottle on the counter, again. 

 

“I am Wrun, of House G'shar,” the Klingon announces, five minutes later. 

 

“Jack, Cait Colony.” Jim has no idea if there is a colony on Cait, or if the planet is even habitable, or if it is, if it's inhabitants look like humans. “Got attacked.” He affects a troubled sigh, but keeps a hard, focused expression. Klingons can _smell_ weakness in others and are known for ruthlessly exploiting it. “Now I'm stuck here.” He downs another shot of whiskey, draws a hissed breath through bared teeth. “Fucking Earthlings.”

  
“I'll drink to that!” Wrun guzzles straight from the bottle. He belches, rubs his mouth on his arm. “I,” he declares, eying Jim with challenge, “am outcast.”

 

In Klingon society, losing affiliation to one's House – the family of renowned warriors one was born into – is equal to being declared _persona non grata_ on Earth. Wrun must have done something pretty awful for his pals to kick him out; in a culture that glorifies honor and conquest, being cut off from all that is one of the direst forms of punishment Jim knows the Klingons dish out. 

 

Listening to his gut, Jim clinks his glass against the Klingon's bottle. “So am I.” At Wrun's questioning look, he explains, “Defended my wife's _honor_. Killed someone. It's against the law, where I come from.”

 

Wrun claps a pan-sized hand on Jim's shoulder, and enunciates with the painstaking precision of those close to a drunken stupor, “Ah, friend, I know precisely what that is like. Do you wish to hear the story of Wrun, of House G'Shar?”

 

Jim smiles easily. “I do.”

 

It's long after midnight, closer to morning actually, when Jim leaves the bar. He's a few hundred credits lighter, but it was money well-spent. He stinks like he spent a week rolling around on a beer-drenched floor, and he's tired, and yet he grins like a fool as he shoves his hands into his pockets and strolls down the sidewalk. 

 

Nice to know he still has it, that gut feeling, those inexplicable hunches that got him out of so many clinches before. 

 

Orion's sun creeps over the roofs by the time Jim finds his way back to the Seaside Hotel, the promise of a new day calling out the early risers, sending the night crowd to bed. The suite at the top of the hotel lies bathed in that bright light, blinding Jim when he walks in. With a wince, he orders, “Computer, blinds, shut,” and then listens. It's perfectly quiet. Khan isn't in the sitting room, or the lounge, or the bedroom. The bathroom lies empty and pristine, its large tub and equally large shower cubicle inviting to wash off the stench of a night spent in a seedy bar. 

 

Not yet.

 

Jim toes off his boots and socks, strips off his jacket, and heads for the kitchen door. He doesn't bother to knock and strides in, wanting to share what he's learned from Wrun's sorry tale, what a stroke of luck it is for _them_. “Hey, I'm...” 

 

The kitchen looks like a scientist brought some of his work home with him, table, counters and the unused cooking field cluttered with dozens of beakers, vial racks, small, compact incubators, hand-written notes and abstract glass-tube constructions. The blinds in front of the large window are shut, the window pane darkened, leaving it to the incubator units to light up the room. 

 

Khan's sitting on one of the kitchen chairs when Jim walks in, clearly asleep. He's upright, hands flat on his thighs, like he's waiting for something, but his chin is down on his chest and the fringe of his hair stirs lightly in time with even breaths. 

 

That has got to be the most uncomfortable position Jim ever saw someone sleep in. It's even worse than Khan in the horizontal, stiff and straight like a mummy. Exasperation mixing with an odd feeling of amusement, Jim silently walks up to the side of the chair. He doesn't have a clue why Khan sleeps like that, even when there's a bed available. It's like the man can't allow himself to relax, ever. 

 

Jim's attention is briefly diverted by the one dozen shallow, lidded petri dishes stacked on a large, metal tray on the table in front of Khan. There's more of the same in the incubator units, the timers on all of the units counting down: six hours, thirty-seven minutes left. 

 

 _That's_ what Khan's been doing all week? Prepping the samples and then watching the timers count down to zero? Jim's awed. He'd go insane, sitting here all the time and watching the numbers tick. Maybe Jim isn't the only one of their two-man team who was wound a little tightly, last afternoon. 

 

“Hey,” Jim says gently, touching his palm to Khan's shoulder. “Wake up.”

 

Khan shoots out of the chair as if pinched. He slaps Jim's hand away, kicks the chair to the side, and assumes a defensive position so fast all Jim can do is get out of the way before Khan's fist strikes the air where Jim's face was, two seconds ago. 

 

Jim lifts an eyebrow. “Good morning.” A grin spreads on his face. Khan's blinking furiously, breath just that much faster to let on that Jim really startled him. “Had a good sleep?”

 

By increments, Khan lowers his arm, fingers flexing apart. He straightens up, the familiar glower settling on his face. It's so dark in the kitchen that his eyes are all pupil, a thin ring of ice around black. Unlike most people Jim knows, Khan doesn't attempt to explain or justify his startled reaction, and for the sake of keeping peace, Jim doesn't point out that he managed to sneak up on Mr. Superiority without even meaning to. 

 

“You,” Khan's nostrils flare, “stink.”

 

Yeah, he does. Jim shrugs, turning to the door. “I went bar-hopping.” Well, he got thrown out of one bar, and then spent the rest of the night in one other bar, but he's not about to bother with the details. “It was fun. And I even got something to show for it.” At the door, he looks back over his shoulder. “Come on.”

 

Clearly reluctant, Khan looks to the incubator units. 

 

“Those timers aren't going to tick down any faster, no matter how hard you stare at them,” Jim says lightly, heading for the bedroom. After a moment, Khan follows. Jim strips off his shirt as he goes, throwing it in the general direction of the bathroom, works open his belt. “Anyway, I had an interesting drinking buddy. Klingon. Wrun of House G'Shar.”

 

Khan stops on the threshold of the bedroom, arms crossed over his chest. The glower is out full now, complete with the narrowed eyes and the slightly pinched lips. In the early morning light streaming in around the blinds, his skin is nearly translucent, a nice contrast to his black hair. 

 

Arrested by the sight, Jim's sharply reminded of his earlier, visceral reaction to the other man's proximity. Now he's half-naked in front of him, and yeah – just-woke-up-Khan is _clearly_ a sight Jim appreciates. So does the rest of his body. Warmth pools gently in his loins, not the surprising, instant, aching erection of last afternoon, but a sweet, slow pull and a stir of interest. 

 

Whatever. 

 

It's not that he changed his mind – he doesn't want to jump Khan – but he realizes in a moment of crystal clarity that he wouldn't _mind_ , either. Quietly irritated at himself, Jim doesn't even attempt to rationalize it. Worrying about that is only going to wind him up again, and he's not in the mood for some self-flagellating navel gazing. 

  
“And?” Khan prompts.

 

“And I learned a few details I'm sure the Reborn would rather not have us know.” Fetching a change of clothing from the drawers of a dresser, Jim heads for the bathroom. “Come on. I'll keep talking, but I do want a shower before I stink up the entire place.” He dumps the clothes on the closed lid of the toilet, strips off his pants and boxers, and steps into the shower cubicle. Khan once more comes to a halt on the threshold. “Remember Earth's perimeter sensors?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“They're gone.” 

 

Jim shuts the cubicle door, turns on the water – real water, not a sonic shower – and soaps up. The cubicle's glass walls are milky, decorated with a swirly pattern. Khan is a blurry outline of black in the large blur that's the bathroom's interior. Content to let the other man stew on that revelation for as long as it takes to finish his shower, Jim revels in the hot water pounding down on him. 

 

Slowly, he slips a hand down his belly, turns himself a little so his back is to the milky glass, and fingers his cock. Half-hard. 

 

He's not going to do anything about it, not while Khan's in the same room, but allows himself a moment of fantasy. He's seen Khan naked before, and imagines how they'd fit together, letting the past, the events that threw them together and then threw them together _again_ fall away. It's pure, physical attraction, and maybe a tiny bit of care, that thing that's stirring his interest. 

 

And the care? Well, they're all they have now, each other, and between them a plan to bring down an empire. Jim's man enough to recognize the parallels between them, situational as well as emotional, and finally in a state of mind where it doesn't bother him anymore. 

 

It's Khan's obsidian mind that presents the problem. It's the things that Khan has done, and done to Jim, and people Jim loved, that keep a wary edge even to the fantasy of Jim's hands exploring that statuesque, lean-muscled body. He's never been more aware of Khan's volatile nature, the lengths he's willing to go to, the ice-cold machinations of his mind, than he is now, in this moment. 

 

With a small sigh, Jim reaches for the water controls, yanks them around to 'cold'. _One inappropriate boner, taken care of, thank you_. 

 

Shivering, he steps out of the shower. Khan greets him with, “And you know that for sure, do you?”

 

“No.” Hastily, Jim wraps himself in a towel and grabs another. “But think about it. The Dreadnoughts aren't docked at any of the space stations in orbit around the planet like you normally do with star ships that aren't used for anything. They're just hovering.”

 

Khan nods slowly. “I've seen the pictures.” The footage of the Dreadnought fleet in orbit around Earth, like a swarm of black wasps ready to strike at a moment's notice, was probably one of the first things he looked at, on Jim's PADD, when he first ended up on the _Bug_. “So, manned ships, ready to strike.” He paces a few steps into the bathroom, gaze on the floor. “That doesn't necessarily mean the perimeter sensors are not functioning anymore.”

 

“True,” Jim admits, “but this Wrun guy was pretty adamant about how the Klingons destroyed those sensors, one after the other. He called it a 'success of the empire', right up there with the couple of ships they managed to shoot down.” He towels off, slips on fresh boxers. “We won't know until we try it.” 

 

“How?”

 

Jim pulls on his pants. “Sting operation. I'm going to take the _Bug_ and try to get close. I've a pretty descent idea how far the original range of the sensors extended, so I'll know when they should be picking up on my presence, and if they don't -”

 

Khan frowns at him. “You mean we.”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“ _We_ take the _Bug_ and try to get close.”

 

“Noooo,” Jim says, stretching the word, “ _I_ am doing that. You stay here and finish that virus.” When it looks like Khan's going to object, Jim holds up a hand to stall him. “I can't help you with the virus. But this, this is something I can do. I'm a good pilot. And the _Bug's_ so tiny, they won't see me as a threat.” Hopefully. 

 

Khan pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “This plan is so full of holes I could maneuver a Dreadnought through them.” 

 

“And I said I'd bring the popcorn. If I go pop...” Jim doesn't think he will, but it's a possibility he has to consider. He's done crazy things before and lived, but jetting up close to a Dreadnought fleet has to be the stupidest, even for him. Still, someone needs to do it. They need to find a way to actually get the virus to Earth, when it's finished, and short of passing the two of them off as sheep returning to join the flock, they don't have many other options. “Well, then I trust you to carry out my will, so to speak.”

 

His winning smile is entirely lost on Khan. Instead of citing a numerical list of the ways of how Jim's plan sucks, however, Khan eyes him, shakes his head, and leaves the bathroom. 

 

Jim follows on his heels. “Where're you going?”

 

“Was there something else you wanted to tell me?”

 

“Yeah.” Jim jerks his chin at the bedroom. “In there.” He waits until Khan steps through the door, then puts a hand between his shoulder blades. “Keep going.” When they reach the edge of the bed, he gives him an encouraging push. “Go on. Lie down.”

 

Khan turns into six feet of immovable muscle. “And then?”

 

There's a clear warning in those two words. Jim considers the facts, what little he knows at any rate, thinks back to the few times he's seen Khan sleep. Might be that Khan objects to sharing a bed with another man on principle, but Jim doesn't think that's the case. Sure, there's a 300-year-difference in cultural background between them, but at his core, Khan's a soldier. A warrior. He's probably seen more of war than Jim ever will, but Jim's gone through Starfleet training and knows what a constant state of alertness can do to people. In retrospect, it's weird Jim didn't make that connection earlier. 

 

He eyes the stiff line of Khan's spine, now. “We'll sleep. I'm tired, and you can't tell me you're not. C'mon. You'll sleep better when you can tell where I am, won't you?”

 

To Jim's surprise, Khan's shoulders sag an inch. He doesn't answer, but does sit on the edge of the bed and pulls off his boots, then works his belt off. 

 

Slightly puzzled by the ease Khan gives in with, Jim moves to the other side. He wasn't expecting a fight – not a real one – but at least an argument. Perhaps Khan's more tired than he's willing to let on. Or maybe Khan just misses his people more than he lets on, too. Jim remembers that moment in the cargo bay, Khan's hand around his forearm, the rawness replacing cold indifference. 

 

Jim lies down, fights with the blanket. Next to him, Khan slides into the horizontal atop the covers. The bed is wide enough so they don't touch, but the evidence of another body is there in the way the mattress dips and shifts, the cadence of breaths slowly assuming the same rhythm as his own. _In for a pound_ , Jim thinks, and turns onto his side, extending an arm between them. His fingers find Khan's wrist. He doesn't grab or hold, creates just enough contact for this to be real, and closes his eyes. 

 

He sleeps like a baby. 

 

\- - -

 

_They've never seen anything like it. Professionals they are, the security guards of the Francisco Medical Center of Genetics know when they are beaten, when a strategic retreat is the better option, the saner one. When the 10 th sub-level of the facility is lost, the captain of the on-duty team gives the order to fall back. Let the Augments have this floor, and the one above this one, and the others, too. Let them have the whole damn place._

 

“ _We ain't getting paid enough for this shit,” Captain Vasquez decides. She's bleeding heavily, leaving a trail of red on the glass-strewn floor. Her left arm is all but useless, dangling at her side, distant pain further numbed by triple injections of B-119, the standard field anesthetic all guards carry as part of their kit. “Fall back! Now!”_

 

_The men and women under Vasquez' command form a tight cluster around their captain. They leave their dead behind, moving to the end of the floor swiftly. They'll come back for their fallen comrades later, once the Augments are gone._

 

 _And they_ will _be gone. By Vasquez' assessment, they're in the middle of a planned revolt – someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make sure the doors of sub-level 10 all opened at the same time, and the Augments were_ ready _for it. An inside job. The guards on duty just had enough time to radio in for reinforcement before they were overwhelmed._

 

_Vasquez doesn't bother to waste time questioning how a bunch of semi-comatose relics from the past, who as far as she knows had no contact with each other the entire time they were tombed up here, managed to fall into a cohesive group so quickly. She only knows that 12 out of 25 of her people are dead, riddled with phaser holes or torn apart, and that she's not going to sacrifice the other 13 to a lost cause._

 

_They make it to the turbolift at the end of the hallway and pile in._

 

_Subject #01, Crazy Bitch Ann, who has been stalking them the entire time, stops moving the moment the last of Vasquez' team is inside the lift. She's unarmed, but it doesn't matter. She looks like something that crawled out of the pit of hell, black eyes burning with a terrible fire. Her white lab clothes, a pair of loose pants and a shirt, are streaked with blood. Her arms are red from fingertips to elbow._

 

_Behind Ann, the other Augments are moping up the remains of a failing resistance. A screaming nightshift nurse dies, skull crushed between the hands of Subject #05. Vasquez remembers the nurse's name – Kelly something – and mutters a quick prayer under her breath._

 

“ _Want me to put her down, captain?” one of Vasquez' team murmurs in her ear._

 

“ _No. You do that, we're dead.” Vasquez would love nothing more than to shoot a hole between Ann's eyes, but the strategical part of her mind tells her she'd be signing everyone's death warrant. She has a duty toward her people, and right now, that duty is to make sure they survive. Clearly, the Augments are something different – something_ more – _than the Reborn. They might get Ann, but then the rest of the Augments would be after them like a pack of rabid wolves. “Get us the fuck out of here. Do it now.”_

 

_The lift door shuts. The last thing Vasquez ever sees of Subject #01 is a pitying smirk and a mouthed 'farewell'._

 

_Crazy Bitch Ann, indeed._

 

\- - -

 

The bed next to Jim is empty when he wakes, Khan's whereabouts made known by the distant rush of the shower. Jim doesn't know what time it is, doesn't care; the blanket clings to him like a jealous lover, the mattress cradles him safely. He slept the sleep of one who has gone too long without, wakes with leaden limbs and a disconnected feeling of tranquility. For the first time in an aeon, his mind is empty of worries, anger and guilt. He slides his palm across the empty expanse of the covers, which still hold a trace of warmth, pulls his arm in close to his body and tucks his hand, curled, under his chin. 

 

The next conscious impression Jim has is Khan's silhouette against the grayish illumination of Veenegri's night sky. Khan moves through the bedroom so silently Jim can't hear anything and wonders if he's dreaming, but Khan is substantial enough, eyes catching a streak of light as he moves to the other side of the bed, collecting his boots. 

 

“Hey,” Jim murmurs. With Khan's back to the window, he can't see the other man's expression. It doesn't matter; Jim's suddenly very aware that the faint ripple at Khan's side is the outline of a towel cinched around the waist of an otherwise bare body, that Khan's hair gleams wetly where the light catches it. Sucking in a quiet breath, Jim exhales on a shudder. 

 

Questions like 'will he?', 'does he?' and 'does he _know_?' are moot. Khan says, “Captain,” very softly, the single word ending on a barely-there question mark, and Jim's going to go to hell but says, “Fuck, yes,” and throws the remaining shreds of his reservation as far from his mind as possible. Let someone else debate the wisdom, the morality, his sanity. Jim says, “I want,” and Khan answers, after an agonizingly long moment, “I know,” and drops his boots, climbs onto the bed, and straddles Jim's lap. 

 

Jim tugs the towel open and away. He can't see nearly as much as he'd like to, makes up for it with fingertips and palms mapping the broad expanse of Khan's chest and shoulders, his solid, narrow hips. He rocks up against Khan's weight, enjoys the torturous drag of the layers of blanket and his boxers that still separate them as much as he wishes they were gone, and closes a hand over the warm length of Khan's cock. 

 

Their encounter isn't at all like Jim imagined earlier. It's very quiet, a slow, tactile exploration in the dark. Khan lifts himself on his knees and pulls down the blanket, tugging down the waistband of Jim's boxers. Jim takes both of them in hand. His mind goes white and empty with the pleasure, the incredible sensation of someone else's skin against his. 

 

Khan does all the work. He leans back, hands finding a hold on Jim's thighs. His hips roll forward against Jim's hand, his balls drag against Jim's on the way back. It feels a bit as though he's trying to bring them both off as smoothly and quickly as possibly, the way Khan does everything else, so Jim mixes in some unpredictability, like rubbing his thumb over the slick heads of their cocks in his grip, and holding them still so he can tease the buttery soft skin behind Khan's balls, and reaching up to tweak a tight nipple. 

 

Khan breathes out a moan. His head tips back, the long elegant line of his throat exposed. Jim wants to sit up and sink his teeth into all that smooth, pale skin, feel Khan's noises vibrate against his lips. He's not sure he wants to kiss Khan, or if the other would let him, but he'd at least try. 

 

But he's flat on his back, loathe to change position. Instead, he rests his free hand against Khan's belly, feeling the muscles there tighten and flex with the sea-swell rocking of Khan's hips. They're leaking a jittery pool of pre-come onto Jim's abdomed, and Khan's hands are digging more tightly into the muscle of Jim's thighs. Jim lets go just long enough to swipe his palm through the slickness, and god, yeah, that's it. Their cocks slide through his grip much easier now. 

 

“C'mon,” he coaxes breathlessly, when the edge looms unavoidably close, when he's feeling the first, definite _pull_ of heat along his limbs, the maddening tingle when his balls tighten and draw up. Jim feels overheated, wound tight like a coiled spring, sweat pin-pricking his skin. “I got you. Give it to me.” 

 

Khan's response is a rough growl, teeth bared, eyes narrowed and hard. He grinds his hips forward, fucks the circle of Jim's fingers, and it's a _gorgeous_ sight, like he's finally letting go, control relinquished for carnal urges. 

 

It's what tips Jim over, in the end. He spills over his fingers with a groan, the additional, sudden wetness and the slippery drag of cock against cock too much for frayed nerves to bear, and bucks up sharply. He makes a lunging grip for Khan's shoulder and pulls him down, pulls him close. Whispers, “C'mere,” and “C'mon, do it,” and sinks his teeth into the nearest bit of skin his mouth finds – collarbone, base of throat – and feels Khan spread heat between their bellies, over his fist. 

 

Their ragged breathing is the only sound in the bedroom, for a long, long while. 

 

No, it's not at all like Jim imagined it would be. He gentles the grip he has on them, nurses the metallic tang of blood, tongue-tip soft against abused skin, and feels Khan shudder against him. With an effort, Jim frees his trapped hand, wipes it on the sheets. He's not a big cuddler, but his arms find their way around Khan's heaving back, fingertips gliding up and down the length of Khan's spine while they come down from the high. Khan makes no motion to climb off; if his disgruntled rumble is anything to go by, when Jim jostles them a bit too much, he's not planning on moving anytime soon. 

 

Maybe Khan's a cuddler. 

 

It's the last coherent thought Jim has, before sleep beckons once again, and that's – it's fine, yeah. What they've just done here, it's fine. It was great. They can do it again, maybe. Jim presses a sloppy kiss against the other man's shoulder, tugs and pulls until Khan stretches out a little more, and drops off into sleep with a satisfied hum. 

 

\- - -

 

_Ann leaves a trail of destruction across the facility. She pours all her remaining strength and all her bottomless anger into the one duty she knows she's still meant to perform. She's dying, and she knows that, too. The filth has done too much damage, and Ann doesn't have the time to risk resting for a longer recuperation period._

 

 _She needs to get Khan to safety. She needs to get him_ out _._

 

_Then she can die._

 

_Ann looks at the faces of the other two Augments helping her carry the cryo-tube, Otto and Joaquin, and sees the same fierce determination there that fuels them, gives them strength to overcome the debilitating wounds, the pints and pints of blood drawn, the virii and bacteria the filth tested on them. They've fought their way up 10 levels, straining for the surface of this cursed place. They'll fight their way up a thousand, if that's what it takes._

 

_They stood against legions, once, and they won that war._

 

_The doctor, Ellis, opens another door for them. Cold night air brings relief from the stench of split bowels and vomit, the heat of the fires the Augments laid to throw their pursuers off their track for a few minutes. Ann doesn't trust the doctor, but for now, he remains useful: she won't kill him just yet._

 

_The city stretching glittering and glassy around them bears only traces of the San Francisco Ann once fought in. The only landmark she recognizes right away is the Golden Gate Bridge spanning the bay, and even that's been tampered with, changed just enough to appear alien._

 

“ _I can't come with you,” Ellis explains hurriedly, pressing a flat, hard card into Ann's hand. “Take my car.” He nods at a strange vehicle hovering above the ground, twenty feet away._

 

_Ann knows at once that this small vehicle cannot transport all the Augments and the cryo-tube. It doesn't look large enough to transport the tube and even the three of them. Torn suddenly between the need to see Khan to safety, and the inexplicable urge to stay behind and fight alongside the others, Ann hesitates. It's just her, Otto and Joaquin here, outside. The other Augments are still in the facility, staying behind as a diversion._

 

“ _We stay,” Otto says. “You go.” He's but a shadow of the handsome man Ann once knew, face haggard and the rest of him skin and bone. “Time is all we can give each other, now.”_

 

“ _Hurry,” Ellis whispers. “It'll be only minutes until the entire area's on lockdown.”_

 

_They end up ripping the passenger seat out of Dr. Ellis' strange car, to fit Khan's cryo-tube inside. Ann needs fifteen seconds to understand the basic controls, and five seconds to grip forearms with Otto and Joaquin, a silent exchange of farewells. Then she's speeding away from the facility, along unfamiliar streets, her friend and leader silent and frozen behind glass and metal next to her, toward an unknown future._

TBC 

 


	6. SIX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took a while. Work is driving me 'round the bend ( again ).

\- - -

 

**CHAPTER SIX**

 

\- - -

 

Instinct wakes Jim. He's being watched. He forces his eyes open against the grit of sleep gluing them together and keeps perfectly still otherwise, careful not to announce his wakeful state by any sudden movement. The bedroom expands dark and cool around him, shadows and gray light creeping in unsteady stripes past the blinds. Distantly, Jim hears the faint sounds of Veenegri's night life: shouts and the hum of hovercars, and beneath that the steady swell and retreat of ocean waves against a craggy shore. 

 

At the foot end of the bed, Khan is a pale line of angles and smooth planes. Jim's gaze wanders from prominent collar bones down the muscled chest and flat belly, less out of carnal interest than caution, until it lands on the hand curled gently against Khan's slender thigh and the blunt-tipped shape clasped loosely between long fingers. Jim's been on the receiving end of too many of McCoy's sneak hypo-spray attacks to not immediately recognize the shape for what it is, although no one has gone at him with one in years. 

 

Khan's other hand is empty. 

 

Jim had wondered why Khan didn't attempt to kill him, that day they laid eyes on each other for the first time, or later, when Jim had gotten him out of the cell on New Vulcan and they'd retrieved Khan's belongings from Qo'noS. Now he knows. He suspected, guessed, so the impact of the sight of Khan standing there is gentled by a warm cushion of, _I knew this would come_. 

 

Jim looks back up to where a strip of light draws attention to Khan's eyes, colorless and fixed relentlessly on something only Khan can see, something Jim hopes he'll never have to. There's nothing human in that gaze. It's a window into a mind used to soulless calculations and merciless strategy: Khan, against the rest of the world. Khan, out to save his people. Khan, who will walk over cold corpses, bridges burning in his wake. 

 

And oh, Jim wishes he couldn't, but he can see the wheels turning. He tells himself he isn't disappointed that Khan's _still_ at a point where he has to _decide_ whether or not to use all of Jim as a guinea pig, and not just his blood, but what can he do? It's Khan, and it _doesn't matter_ what was said before, what fragile concession to teamwork Jim managed to wring from him. The contents of that hypo-spray may or may not kill him, and unless Khan decides not to use it, Khan would stand over him and watch. Draw conclusions. Note the results, and use his findings to alter, to perfect the virus he's working on. 

 

And then he'd leave Jim to die, and move on to dealing with the Reborn.

 

Jim lifts a hand out of the tangled blanket, extends his arm. It's not an offer. It's acceptance of the inevitable. 

 

Khan's gaze snaps to the extended arm. He makes a low, furious sound, flings the hypo-spray onto the mattress, and stalks from the room. Fast patter of feet against carpet, and a door slams. Not running – just the long strides of long legs. Jim drops his arm back down and releases a shaky breath. He sits up, feels for the cylindrical shape between the folds of the blanket, sets the hypo-spray down on the nightstand. He's trembling, not out of fear: a life-or-death scenario decided in his favor. 

 

He gets out of bed once the tremors subsided and he doesn't feel quite so lightheaded anymore, pads down the corridor. The door to the kitchen is open, the gentle glow of the incubator units and their timers – all showing zero - illuminating an otherwise empty room. Jim opens the door to the sitting room, warily, but it's only a cool breeze of night wind that springs at him. 

 

“Don't say anything,” Khan cautions him, sounding raw and aggravated, when Jim steps out onto the balcony. “I don't want to hear it.”

 

Jim studies the tense lines of the back turned to him. It must cut, to find something Khan wants so badly offered from a completely unexpected source: him. Jim isn't an Augment; there's none of the history between them that ties Khan to his people, his crew, but the tells were there: in the firm grip of a hand on Jim's forearm, the ease with which they do work together when egos and tempers are set aside, perhaps even the sex, unplanned as it was. 

 

“I should have killed you when -” Khan doesn't finish the sentence, but Jim hears it, anyway: _when I still could_. 

 

Jim scratches at his eyebrow. There are a million things he could say, starting with how he's somehow managed to worm his way past Khan's icy exterior without even trying. In the end, he settles for, “Come back to bed.” It's late, or early, and he's tired now that the danger has passed. “I'm freezing my nuts off out here.”

 

He turns and heads back inside, shutting the door to the kitchen on his way back to the bedroom. The sheets and blanket are cool when he slides between them. 

 

Khan appears in the door, outlined in gray light. Wordless, he lies down on the other side of the bed. 

 

They lie in complete, awkward silence for endless minutes. Jim thinks about cementing this – whatever it is – with words, with gestures. He's never been good at that, and he's not sure it will be welcome, or even needed. He's not even sure what 'it' is. Khan said he doesn't want to hear anything, though, so Jim just rolls over, throws an arm and a leg over the long, prone body next to his, and tugs the blanket up over both of them. 

 

Sleep is a long time coming, but it does, eventually. 

 

\- - -

 

The next morning is decidedly weird. Khan's as tense as a coiled spring and limits his vocabulary to biting snippets fired like missiles Jim's way, as though all of this is somehow Jim's fault. Jim, for his part, teeters between amusement and annoyance, even when he sits through the most uncomfortable breakfast in the history of breakfasts, and he does have some experience there – 'mornings after' during his time at the Academy were either hurried hunts for clothes and the front door, or frantic attempts to recall the name or names of his latest conquest(s). 

 

“So you _like_ me, so what?” Jim asks, over coffee. “You _like_ your crew, too, otherwise you wouldn't have pulled out all the stops for them. What's your problem?” He takes another bite of the excellent stir-fry, snags a piece of toast. “Are you worried about your reputation, or what?”

 

On the other side of the dining table, Khan looks ready to spit nails. “I am not in love with you. You are not part of my crew.”

 

Jim shrugs. “Didn't say you were. Or that I was. But you obviously care. Otherwise,” and some of the humor goes out of the situation when he remembers last night's tense moments, “you'd have injected me with the virus last night. Thanks for the heart attack, by the way. It's so nice to know you didn't kill me _yet_ just so you'd have a living lab rat.”

 

Khan stalks out of the sitting room without another word, leaving his breakfast untouched. Jim's not worried. He woke to Khan draped all over him, and he's strangely all right with it. Either he's beginning to suffer from some kind of Stockholm Syndrome – prolonged exposure to Khan seems to have debilitating effects – or something really came unhinged after the second attack on New Vulcan; either way, he's not going to waste brain space on it. 

 

For better or for worse, he's thrown his lot in with Khan. He's not 'in love' with the man, either, but he can't deny the attraction and he's not going to bother dissecting the jumble of emotions riding that particular bandwagon. It's a little bit like how it was with Spock in the beginning, although with a much higher probability of murder. He's not yet at a point where he'll call Khan a friend, and maybe he'll never be, but the foundation has been laid. 

 

He finishes breakfast, absently listening to Khan slam around in the kitchen. Khan's latest series of tests have indeed yielded a promising strain of the Tellurian Plague, but without an actual, living Reborn to test it on, they won't know the full effects of the pathogen until they find one or release the virus on Earth. 

 

Jim refills his coffee cup and goes to lean in the kitchen door, watching Khan dismantle the lab equipment. Three small metal containers are lined up on one of the counters, containing a dozen small vials each: 36 doses of death encased in fragile glass, to be used in hypo-sprays or via aerosol dispersal. They haven't yet talked about the logistics of _how_ they'll release the virus on Earth. 

 

“I'm coming with you.” Khan takes apart an incubator unit with an ease that speaks of experience. “There's no point in me staying on Orion now.”

 

Jim's not going to argue. Oh, he could argue – if the perimeter sensors are, contrary to the Klingon Wrun-of-House-G'Shar's claim, still working and they're discovered, it'll all go to hell – but short of knocking Khan out and then storing him in a cupboard somewhere while Jim makes a fast getaway, he'd be wasting his breath. Khan's work is finished. “Did you plan anything for how to make the virus spread?”

 

“Don't have to. Extrapolating from the data I've gathered working with your blood, it's potent enough to spread on its own, once released into a populated area.” 

 

“So we just...go to Earth, find our people, drop those,” Jim jerks his chin at the three metal containers, “in the middle of San Francisco, and then get the hell out of dodge.” That's a bit thin. “You realize they'll take measures to contain it. It might not even make it past the borders of the city, depending how quickly they lock down the area.”

 

“I do know that.” Khan sorts flasks and petri dishes into a casket. “I also said I'm not a complete monster. And I'm not an idiot, either. I'll settle for creating just enough chaos to get my people out, _for now_.” He stops sorting, rolls his shoulders. “Whether or not the virus spreads to all corners of Earth is of no concern to me. I can always come back later and finish the job.”

 

There it is again, one of those unspoken things: _depending on what state my crew are in_. Jim doesn't let on that he's suddenly feeling a bit queasy; he has been thinking about that, just as he's been forced to think about how despite his wish to rescue Scotty, Sulu and the colonists, they might all be dead already. At least one member of Khan's crew, Ann, is gone. The Reborn have had the others for ten years, give or take a few. 

 

If _he's_ thought about it, so has Khan. The man has backup-plans for his back-up plans. It's intimidating to consider that every possible outcome of their endeavor has already occurred to him, has been subjected to intense scrutiny and tested for flaws, for catches, for different approaches. Jim doesn't want to know what he'll come up with if they go to Earth only to discover that all his people are dead. Hell hath no fury, and all that. It's not that Jim's concerned about the damage Khan will do, but he'd rather not be near ground zero when it happens. 

 

“We'll need a bigger ship.” Jim finishes his coffee. “The _Bug_ can hold 50 people, and that's when they're squeezed tight.”

 

“Yes,” Khan agrees. He fastens the lid on a crate. “I want a Dreadnought.”

 

Of course he does. Jim isn't even surprised. 

 

\- - - 

 

_Not all of San Francisco is glass and glitter and cool, strange metal. Toward the fringes, the outskirts, where the houses are smaller and flatter and the streets unsteadily lit, the city still retains some features Ann thinks she recognizes. She can't be sure; San Francisco was bombed and burned down six times during the Eugenics Wars, rebuilt differently each time, only a few landmarks remaining the same. Maybe it's her mind playing tricks on her, desperately attempting to find something_ known _amid the chaos._

 

_Ann finds sanctuary in an abandoned factory, an old meatpacking plant on the edge of a fenced field. She's hungry and thirsty, but a search through Doctor Ellis' strange vehicle yields only a half-full plastic bottle of water and a foil-wrapped chocolate bar. It's not nearly enough to quench the pangs threatening to fold Ann in half._

 

_It will have to do, for now._

 

_There is also a small, hand-held computer, quite like the PDTs of her time. The controls are self-explanatory and grant her access to something called 'Terra Online Project', which isn't unlike the internet Ann was used to. Curled into the driver's seat, the computer in her lap to minimize the glow of the screen light from projecting, Ann spends an hour looking at maps of San Francisco and the immediate area._

 

_She needs to get Khan to safety._

 

_She also wants to unfreeze him, but doesn't; if she's caught, she'll be killed, but Khan might be left alive if he remains frozen. Ann isn't sure if that wouldn't deliver him back into the hell she just escaped from, but for now, she decides it's safer to leave him in his cryo-tube._

 

_So: escape. How? The answer is simple: a ship. Space._

 

_Ann's eyebrows climb toward her hairline the longer she reads up on warp-drives and all the other technological advancement of the recent centuries. If only she had more time – if only these were different circumstances – then she'd have loved to immerse herself deeper. She's a scientist at heart, a soldier out of necessity._

 

_The soldier in her concentrates on San Francisco's land ports and the relative distance between the nearest one and the abandoned meatpacking plant. She wants a ship, but in a pinch, she'll settle for a shuttle – for_ anything _that gets her and Khan off this forsaken rock._

 

_She wonders what happened to the_ Botany Bay _. How did the humans even_ find _them?_

 

_Unimportant. Guessing will get her nowhere, only killed; her captors teased and taunted her with bits and pieces of information, spoon-sized shreds of history while they cut and injected and monitored. Just enough to let her know that 300 years have passed between the day 73 Augments boarded the fastest ship of their time, and now._

 

_She stumbles over a sensationalist article on something called_ Dreadnoughts _. Fast. Very fast. Weapons, too, although the speed is of more interest to Ann than the destructive capabilities, at the moment. Pity she can't have one of those._

 

_The nearest land port is 15 miles to the south. Small. Privately owned, according to the information the Terra Online Project gives her. Ann turns off the computer, stares at the finger-thick dust on the latticework of conveyor belts and rusted carts around her. By now, the Augments who remained behind at the medical facility will have either escaped themselves, or they'll have been recaptured._

 

_Recapture is more likely. Execution even more so._

 

_She's on her own, then; she can't count on Otto, Joaquin and the others._

 

_That's all right. Once she's gotten Khan to safety and unfrozen him, there will be a time to mourn the dead, if only for a few moments, if she still has time by then. It's unlikely that Ann will be around to_ see _the hell Khan will rain down on the humans, but that doesn't bother her._

 

_She knows Khan will excel at bringing death where it's due; he's always been very good at that._

 

\- - -

 

Khan insists on paying their rather astronomically high hotel bill. “I didn't even know you had money,” Jim comments when they're outside and waiting for Gerun to finish loading their stuff into the hovercraft that will transport them to Veenegri's land port. Khan doesn't answer, just sends him an 'oh, _please_ ' glare. “Right, not going to ask.”

 

Their departure from Orion coincidences with the start of Beetle Season. The whole city is decked out with green banners. Speakers blare thumping bass beats from every corner, and the streets are even more packed with tourists and locals than before. Jim's glad they're not going to have to fight their way through that on foot, what with all the luggage Khan insisted they take with them: the lab equipment in two large crates, in case some quick and dirty modifications still need to be done. 

 

An hour later, the _Bug_ lifts off of Orion soil and takes them into space. It's going to take them nine hours to reach Earth, though Jim plans to drop them out of warp well before that. The perimeter sensor net, Earth's primary means of detecting an invasion, consists of a large number of tiny, unmanned space stations and satellites located at fixed points in a set radius around the planet. Most of the locations were classified during Starfleet time, well above Jim's pay grade, but he can at least check on the known ones, to see if Wrun's claim holds water. 

 

Jim honestly doubts the Klingons managed to get all of the sensors. There are literally hundreds of them. But even if they destroyed just a few, and no one bothered to replace them, there's going to be a hole large enough for a ship as small as the _Bug_ to slip through. 

 

Course set, there's not much else to do until they arrive at their target destination. Jim stands and stretches, feeling calm and restless at the same time. This is it. In just a few hours, they'll know if the first stage of their plan works or not. If it doesn't, well, they won't live long enough to come up with a different strategy. 

 

He finds Khan in his quarters, standing at the bull's eye window and staring out at the blue warp-speed channel. Khan's been positively monosyllabic since they left the hotel. Jim doesn't let the brooding silence deter him; instead, he focuses on the elegant slope of Khan's back and everything he'd like to do to the man it belongs to. He could sleep some more, but he's slept enough, and none of the usual things he'd occupy himself with normally – movies, games, the thousands of books downloaded to PaDDs – appeal to him. 

 

Sex, however, does appeal. He used to have quite a lot of it, between missions, and although he doesn't regret his long stretch of celibacy, he'd like to have some more. What better way to pass the time, really? Besides, depending on what happens once they reach Earth space, there might not be sex for him again, ever. 

 

Jim walks up behind the other man. “Still crabby?” He slides a fingertip across the small of Khan's back, just above the waistline of his pants. When he isn't rebuffed and no vocal protest comes, either, Jim moves in closer, nuzzling the fine hairs at the back of Khan's neck, and rubs a palm over his belly. “Relax. I'm not gonna bite you.”

 

“Pity,” Khan murmurs. “I was hoping you were going to.”

 

Contrary bastard. Khan's reflection in the window looks as impassive as ever, but his irises have taken on the color of the warp channel, bright electric blue. Jim lets his hands rove where they will as he pulls them together harder, down between Khan's legs to cup and knead the soft-hard bulge there, up under the shirt to tease at small nipples with the edge of a fingernail. Gradually, Khan melts against him. Jim flicks the button of Khan's pants, pulls him out, strokes slowly, and Khan takes a harsh breath through clenched teeth, hips bucking. 

 

“Bed,” Jim suggests, breathless, and fuck, the lights will stay _on_. 

 

There's a splash of color to Khan's cheeks. Jim can't take his eyes off it while they undress. When it came to sex, what mattered to Jim was 'more, please', not 'what/who are you?'. That hasn't changed. Khan is aesthetically pleasing in all the right ways; he's tall, muscular without being beefy, and those _eyes_. If they'd met under different circumstances, in a bar on Earth maybe, Jim would have happily attempted to seduce him for a night of careless fun. 

 

It's something different now, loaded with more meaning. 

 

Doesn't mean it can't be fun. 

 

They tumble into sheets that haven't seen washing in forever. Jim kicks them to the floor. He latches onto the side of Khan's neck, and they roll around on the narrow mattress while he licks and bites and sucks, until suddenly he's on top, knees spread wide on either side of Khan's hips, and Khan's fingers dig into his ass, pulling them roughly together. 

 

Jim lifts his head with a groan, catching sight of the dark mark he sucked into the pale skin of Khan's throat. Last night was great, but this is better – rough and heated and just a little brutal. He grinds his cock against Khan's belly, rears up with a shout when fingernails leave burning trails down his back and sides. It's not pain, but heat, deep and gouging, searing him to the bone. 

 

“ _Captain_ ,” Khan purrs, in _that_ tone of voice. 

 

Jim flattens himself onto him. He needs to shut Khan up now, before it's too late, before he'll come from that rumble of a voice alone. That voice is a weapon and should be classified as such. He kisses him messily, sloppily, tongue and teeth and bruised lips, taste of copper, holding Khan still with a hand clenched in black hair. His free hand fumbles for the cluttered nightstand, half the contents of the drawer spilling onto the floor when Khan palms his ass again, pulling his cheeks apart. 

 

Clutching a tube, Jim clenches his eyes shut, panting. A single fingertip rubs over his hole, dips inside. It's dry and scraping and goosebumps shiver down Jim's arms when he clenches around the invading digit. Khan doesn't go far, just deep enough to make Jim really feel it. 

 

“Deeper,” he moans, when his hips have remembered how to move, “harder.” He manages to uncap the tube, squirts a generous amount of lube across Khan's chest, then flings it aside. “Open me up. I want to ride you.”

 

He ends up kneeling above Khan's belly, riding two fingers, first, for far too long. It's not what Jim wants, not nearly enough, but Khan's watching him through narrowed, glittering eyes and looking like he's enjoying the show, so Jim doesn't complain. Khan's fingers rake over his prostate on every downward push of Jim's hips, sending sharp, stark bolts of pleasure from his ass into the rest of his body. 

 

When he can't stand it anymore, Jim swipes through the leftover smear of lube on Khan's chest, reaching behind him. He doesn't bother to finesse it, just lets Khan's cock glide through his fingers twice, cups his balls for a teasing squeeze. Khan's eyes flutter shut, lips parting in wordless appreciation. It's _such_ a pretty sight. 

 

“In me,” Jim gasps, lifting up and pulling Khan's hand away, “now.” He lines Khan up himself and sinks down, craving the stretch and the burn. It's been so long since he felt either, and Jim revels in the twitches and jerks of his own body, the heat, the intimacy of someone's cock in him, so much better than fingers. He spreads his knees wider, letting gravity do the work for him, exhales, and groans lightly when he's gone as far down as he can. 

 

Under him, Khan has gone silent and motionless, eyebrows drawn together as though he's in pain. Jim can't resist and leans down, thumbs leaving smears of lube across flushed cheeks, licking into Khan's mouth. “You feel amazing,” Jim whispers, hot puffs of breath across Khan's lips. And he does. The fullness is exquisite; Khan's cock is like the rest of him, velvet wrapped over steel, just the right size. “You're going to make me feel _so good_.”

 

Khan bares his teeth, impatience barely masked. “Shut up and move.”

 

Jim moves. It's a slow, smooth ride. It's a bit of a power trip, too, especially when Jim learns that swiveling his ass just so earns him a panting, wide-eyed Khan staring up at him as though he's the best thing, ever. Jim's feeling of slick superiority lasts until Khan sets his feet against the mattress and starts thrusting up into him; Khan scrapes the rest of the lube from his chest and wraps his hand around Jim's cock, giving him a snug tunnel to fuck, and it unravels quickly from there on. 

 

Climax boils Jim down to focal points of awareness: the tension in his belly, the slick glide of Khan's shaft against his inner walls, the lift of his balls. It all breaks away from him in a rush, leaving him gasping and spent on top, his insides melting.

 

Khan tumbles him over and fucks him through the aftershocks, chasing his own release. Jim can do little but hang on and whimper encouragements, filthy and hoarse, until Khan falls impossibly still, face buried in Jim's chest. Jim feels the pulse of him where they're connected and deep inside. He wraps his arms around Khan's back and his legs around Khan's hips and holds him until Khan's shudders subside. 

 

They sprawl in mutual contentment, limbs tangled and sweat cooling. This time, it's Khan who fishes for the sheets to drag over them. 

 

\- - -

 

_In the end, it's easy. The privately owned land port has no security worth mentioning. It's called BILL'S JUNKYARD AND REPAIR. Ann kills the sleeping guard on duty at the front gate, disables the surveillance cameras, and drives Doctor Ellis' hovercar past the raised checkpoint barrier._

 

_It's_ too _easy; she keeps waiting for armed forces to arrive, to take her into custody, to open fire. It's what the Augments would have done to keep a situation under control: lock down the area, send in the troops, minimize the threat with maximum force, fast._

 

_But then, these are clearly humans, not Augments. They might have augmented blood – Ann isn't sure how many of them do – but they lack the rigorous selection process and training true Augments underwent. That the city of San Francisco isn't under a tight lock down yet speaks of inexperience or simple oversight, two factors that might just work in her favor._

 

_The land port offers only a few vessels for Ann to choose from. There are four shuttles, two of them in bad repair. The third is a big, clunky thing that has seen better days. The fourth, however, is small and serviceable._

 

_Working under pressure allows Ann to further ignore the state of her body. She's hungrier and thirstier than ever, weak like she's never felt before. Dragging Khan's heavy cryo-tube from the hovercar up the ramp leaves her shivering and gasping for breath in the tiny passenger area of the shuttle. If she's not careful, she'll pass out. She finds the shuttle's tiny bridge, familiarizes herself with the navigation. Some of the tension goes out of her when she finds the controls that shut the ramp._

 

_Then she has a dizzy spell and has to fight to hang on to consciousness, clinging onto the armrests of the pilot seat._

 

“ _Not now. Not now.” The faint feeling passes. “Computer. Initiate pre-flight check.”_

 

_The shuttle's computer doesn't have a voice, but a beep from a console nearby and a flicker of lights all around the bridge end with the comforting hum of engines coming to life. Ann glances at the PaDD she took from Ellis' hovercar. Most of the names of the nearby planets mean nothing to her, but there are Vulcan and Coridan, the homeworlds of races who have been trading with Earth since long before the Eugenics Wars. She'll have to avoid those, of course. Surely, there is_ some _place out there whose inhabitants are not in cahoots with the humans._

 

_She'll find out. As long as she makes it off Earth, it's going to be all right._

 

_Ann recognizes the deteriorating patterns of her thoughts, the slow abandonment of reason and logic and strategy for hope and wishes, and snarls under her breath. Pathetic._ Concentrate _. Wishing and hoping isn't going to get her anywhere._

 

_The shuttle's internal diagnostic programs finish their checks. With a promising twinkle of beeps, the pilot console in front of Ann lights up._

 

_She takes the shuttle straight up, San Francisco a sea of cold light under her, the vast stretch of black ocean and a fat, cheesy moon flirting with the waves to her left. If the shuttle had weapons, Ann would locate the medical facility and bomb the hell out of the surroundings, just because. She'd lay waste to the city and leave that one building standing; a farewell gift from the lab rat, a reminder that only a dead Augment is a harmless Augment._

 

_Instead, she listens to the rattle of metal around her as the shuttle breaks through Earth's atmospheric barrier. The moment it does, a screen skitters across the bridge window, startling her. 'Proximity Alert', it reads. Of course – space ships. Ann despairs for a second: space likely isn't the uncharted territory it used to be. Of course there'll be space ships, docked at a station, or waiting for her to -_

 

_What she sees through the bridge window cuts through her whirling thoughts. Dreadnoughts._

 

_And not just one, but dozens of them._ Fuck _._

 

_Yet the black ships aren't moving, aren't opening fire. They're just hanging there, motionless in space, spaced equidistant from one another. Ann pushes despair aside, intrigued._ Why _aren't they moving? Surely, someone on Earth must have alerted the people on board that an Augment has escaped, that they should be vigilant. It'd be crass negligence if they haven't._

 

_But_ if _they haven't..._

 

_Ann directs the shuttle closer to the nearest Dreadnought. Unless the crew on board is the most idiotic in the history of space travel, there's no way they cannot_ not _notice her approach. Tense, prepared for missiles to be flying her way any second, Ann experiences a growing sense of disbelief: they're not firing. They're not even hailing her, while the tiny shuttle she's in, with its mediocre computer, is doing its best to alert her to the fact that she's on a direct collision course with a freaking big chunk of metal._

 

_Ann halts the shuttle's approach and sits back. She'd be tempted to say the Dreadnoughts aren't manned, if it didn't go against the grain of every ounce of common sense she possesses. Space ships aren't left abandoned in orbit, not even junked ones. It just isn't done._

 

_Trap?_

 

_No. They could have shot holes through the shuttle by now. They could have hailed her, forced her to give up under the threat of doing just that._

 

“ _Computer. Establish contact with,” fast glance at the bridge screen's little extra screen, “the_ USS Saracen _.” Ann narrows her eyes at the Dreadnought in front of her. In a few seconds, she'll know if there's someone on board or not. “Transmit emergency code. Nature of emergency, medical.”_

 

_A moment passes. Then yet another screen pops up in front of her, signaling she's being hailed. Ann accepts the incoming transmission. She expects a computerized response to her emergency call._

 

_She gets a young man instead, in a rumpled black shirt with a little star-shaped emblem on the chest. White skin, blue eyes, hair standing on end, as if he'd just crawled out of bed. Beard shadow. “What do you want?”_

 

_Ann is so flabbergasted she doesn't answer, at first. This has got to be a joke. Pulling herself together and hiding her surprise, she forces a smile. “Hello. I find myself in something of a bind -”_

 

_The young man suspiciously squints at her. “Shuttles aren't allowed to leave Earth, ma'am. I'm going to have to ask you to turn around.”_

 

“ _I'm in need to medical assistance.”_

 

“ _Go to a hospital.”_

 

“ _I would,” Ann pulls up the bottom of her shirt, revealing the long row of stitches down the middle of her upper body, “but I'm afraid I won't make it.”_

 

“ _Jesus.” The young man sucks in his lower lip. “Fuck. Uhm. Fuck. We're not supposed to...”_

 

“ _Surely you have some sort of medical aid on your ship,” Ann coaxes, affecting a pained expression. “See, I was on the way to the hospital, but my shuttle, she's a bit of a junk heap.”_

 

_The young man's eyebrows lift. “You got lost all the way into space?”_

 

_Ann shrugs. “I don't fly very often.”_

 

“ _Fuck. Okay. I'm going to have to...all right, I'll open the shuttle bay.”_

 

“ _Thank you.”_

 

“ _But I'm warning you, I'll still send you back down once the med-bot sorted you out. Fuck, we'll both get into trouble for this.”_

 

_Ann lands in a cavernous shuttle bay. The inside of the Dreadnought is as dark as the outside, beautiful in its stark simplicity. Appreciation of said beauty can wait, though; Ann is much more occupied with trying to figure out if_ all _the Dreadnoughts have such simpletons on board, or just this one. There's not even a single, armed_ anything _in the bay to monitor her._

 

_Nothing of this makes sense, but she's not going to question her luck. She's not going to ask why the people in charge would leave a bunch of war ships in space like this, minded by idiots._

 

_Maybe it's a ruse. Maybe they just don't have enough people to man them._

 

_The young man she spoke to jogs around a corner just as Ann stumbles down the ramp of the shuttle. He's gripping a weapon in one hand, but it's pointed at the ground._

 

_Ann doesn't bother hiding her curiosity. “You're alone on this ship?”_

 

“ _Nah. Standing crew of twelve. We're just taking turns, is all. I'm Zach, by the way.”_

 

“ _Ann. Nice to meet you.” She gives Zach a thorough once-over. He's younger than her, and nothing about him says 'military': he's giving away far too much information far too easily to someone he's only just met, he's way too trusting, and he went against protocol by letting her land in the first place. “So, that med-bot you mentioned...?”_

 

“ _This way.” Zach points down the corridor he came. “Short walk to the turbo-lift. Need a hand?”_

 

“ _Please.” She takes the offered arm. “Twelve, huh? Seems unfair you're the only one doing all the work. Where are the others?”_

 

“ _Oh, they're asleep. We're just the stand-in crew.” Zach rolls his eyes. “Or the janitors, more like.” Slowly, they make their way toward a narrow door at the end of the corridor._

 

_Janitors. A standing crew of twelve, eleven of whom are asleep. Ann pieces together the rest, and pretends that her knees give out just as they reach the turbo-lift. Predictably, Zach attempts to help her, and shoves his gun under the waistband of his pants to free his other hand. “Whoops, careful.”_

 

“ _Sorry.”_

 

“ _It's all right. Man, what happened to you?”_

 

“ _Had an accident.” Ann leans against the wall of the lift. “I read about the Dreadnoughts,” and that's not even a lie, “but wow, they're so much larger than I thought they'd be. How can you keep this thing going with just twelve people?”_

 

_Zach elbows a panel next to the door, smiling easily. She gets the impression he likes to talk and hasn't had anyone to talk to in a while. “They can be flown by just one, and the computers do the rest. We don't do that, of course. We're just here to make sure no one makes off with a free 'nought. The real crew gets beamed up when they're needed.”_

 

_So, not a trap, not a ruse. Standard procedure, apparently, although anyone with even a smidgen of strategic thinking could point out the shortcomings of that idea. “I see.” Ann turns, facing him. “Well, thanks.” She reaches up, grips his chin, the back of his head, and snaps his neck like a twig. Zach is dead before he hits the floor._

 

_\- - -_

 

“Dropping out of warp in three, two, one,” Jim calls, and the blue channel dissipates. He engages the Romulan cloaking device, calls up the sensor screens, checking for company in the immediate area. Nothing. The only blip on the screen is V-09-07, the unmanned, bagel-shaped space station directly in front of them. 

 

Or what's left of it.

 

“Heavy missile damage,” Khan diagnoses coolly. “It's dead.”

 

V-09-07 does indeed look like something took large, uneven bites out of it. The beacon Jim remembers, a cone-shaped construction mounted on the underside of the space station, is gone. A bit of debris floats in the direct vicinity of V-09-07, metal and wiring, scorched black. 

 

“That's two sensors down, then.” The first one was V-09-06, a satellite that hadn't even been at its usual location. Jim glances at the man seated next to him. “Go for it?”

 

Earth is a tiny, blue dot orbited by an even tinier white dot, a far way off still. Khan tilts his head. “Yes.”

 

“Computer, lights, zero percent.” Any kind of energy output they can eliminate is one less energy output likely to be picked up on. Jim takes manual control of the navigation and flies a straight line toward Earth. “Switch to visual output only.” The consoles around them fall silent. “ETA two hours, twenty-nine minutes.”

 

Two hours and twenty minutes later, Khan narrows his eyes. “See that?”

 

Jim does. It looks like strings of black pearls wrapped around Earth. “That's -”

 

“Dreadnoughts,” Khan confirms.

 

Dozens, hundreds of them. The _Bug's_ sensors count 45 just above the tip of the North American landmass, evenly spaced, like dots on a grid. _Someone's been busy_ , Jim thinks. He wonders about the state of things on Earth. The Reborn can't be bothered to replace the perimeter sensors, but they have the time to build hundreds of Dreadnoughts? Jim knows it was mostly civilians who fled Earth to live in the colonies, so it's not a matter of lacking people with the prerequisite knowledge. If the Reborn have the resources to build Dreadnoughts, then they must have the resources for the sensors, too. 

 

“Strength in numbers,” Khan says, as if he's reading Jim's mind. “A visual display of power has a more profound psychological impact on potential enemies than a silent warning system no one is aware of.”

 

Visual display, all right. Jim _is_ impressed. That's easy the largest fleet of ships he's ever seen, within Federation space. Hell, within the entire Alpha Quadrant. Only a complete idiot would attempt an open attack on Earth, with _that_ safety measure in place, and believe they can escape unscathed. So the Reborn haven't bothered with the perimeter sensors because they don't think it's necessary. 

 

It begs the question why the empire hasn't been expanded, the on-going war aside. The idea of the Reborn rubbing shoulders with the Romulans and the Klingons, emerging as the third aggressive species striving to rule the Alpha Quadrant, sends chills down Jim's spine, but it would be the logical conclusion. One planet – Earth – is hardly impressive, hardly enough to justify 'empire', compared to what the Romulans and the Klingons have conquered over the centuries. The Reborn have the hardware, so to speak: a fleet of Dreadnoughts. 

 

Jim voices his thoughts slowly: “I wonder if that's supposed to keep people away, or if it's meant to keep people _in_.”

 

If Khan has an opinion on that, he doesn't share it. Jim takes a moment to look him over. They'd dozed for a while, showered and then eaten a meal. Gradually, the atmosphere had shifted from warmth, sex, more please back to the matter at hand. Except, now the relentless focus Khan displays is something of a turn-on, and Jim's belly tightens with a flicker of interest. 

 

_Down, boy_. 

 

Khan narrows his eyes at the Dreadnoughts. “Closer. Get close to one.”

 

Jim obliges. The distance between the _Bug_ and the looming fleet of ships shrinks, along with some of Jim's confidence. If they're discovered, they'll be incinerated. Not for the first time, he wonders how Ann managed to get her hands on a ship; plucking one right out of that grid formation seems an impossible task. Yet, she'd done it somehow. 

 

“That one.” Khan points at the black ship sitting over the tip of the landmass below, directly in their path. Its identification reads _USS Downeaster_. They get close enough for Jim to count the nuts holding the Dreadnought saucer's plating in place. “Fly up, higher.” Khan leans forward in his seat. “Up to the bridge.”

 

“You want to take a look inside?” Jim pretends his palms aren't sweating when he does as asked, maneuvering the _Bug_ slowly up until they're face to face, or rather, front to bridge window, with the other ship. The fact that the entire width of the _Bug_ equals the length of the _Downeaster's_ bridge window does unkind things to Jim's composure, but he holds his tongue and inches them forward. “I hope you know that the second that ship moves one inch, we'll go splat against it...”

 

Jim trails off. The Dreadnought's dark interior makes it hard to make out details, but the lack of internal lighting and, more telling, the absence of fluctuating lights indicating a computer presence, isn't enough to masquerade the fact that the bridge of the _Downeaster_ is empty. There's no one minding the consoles, no captain sat in the command seat, no pilot. 

 

“Where's the crew?” He looks to Khan for an answer, but the other man is staring at the empty bridge in concentration, motionless and silent. 

 

Unwilling to chance a collision, Jim directs the _Bug_ higher, until the _Downeaster_ is under them. It's like climbing over the carcass of something large, the empty shell of a giant insect. Glancing at the nearby ships, Jim wonders if all of them are as seemingly empty and lifeless as this one. Where's the sense in leaving a Dreadnought unattended? Even if the crew is somewhere out of sight, the computers shouldn't be dormant. 

 

“The next one.” Khan makes a shooing motion. “Pick one. Any ship.”

 

Jim picks the Dreadnought to their left: _USS Balian_. Same procedure, same empty bridge, same dark consoles.

 

“I worked on this,” Khan mutters, to himself more than Jim, when they're clear of the _Balian_ and descending slowly toward Earth. At Jim's questioning noise, he expands, “It was one of Marcus' less insipid ideas. The size of a Dreadnought makes docking them at a space station impractical, and keeping this number off ships crewed at all times would be a waste of resources, especially when there is no immediate target mission. I was developing a transporting system that allows the crew to be beamed directly to their posts, when they are needed. I suspect that is why the ships appear deserted.”

 

Which would completely eliminate the need for space stations, unless it is for repairs. Even that is something that's likely not done; with the number of ships hovering around Earth, and taking the state of the perimeter sensors into account, Jim suspects the Reborn just scrap what they don't need anymore. It's not like they can't afford to lose one or more ships. 

 

The _Bug_ rattles a bit as they break through the atmospheric barrier. North America stretches out under them, surrounded by blue. Jim's first look at his former home doesn't bring the expected sting of homesickness or guilt; this is all enemy territory now, and he thinks accordingly of strategy, mentally prepares himself for the hundreds of things that can go wrong once they're down there. 

 

He sets the _Bug_ on the course for San Francisco. They'll land on the outskirts, as they planned beforehand. Under them, the homogenous mass of greens and browns breaks down into a more distinct pattern of greens, browns and silver divided by long, smooth bands. 

 

“Are you ready?” Khan asks, when San Francisco's Golden Gate Bridge comes into view. 

 

Jim glances over at him. “Are you?”

 

Khan smirks. 

 

\- - -

 

_Ann needs two minutes to locate the rest of the 'janitors', once she has access to one of the numerous consoles. Seven men and four women, all piled into the same room, a communal sleeping area judging by the bunk beds, are easy prey: they don't suspect an attack – sloppy – and they never see Ann coming. Ann takes a scalpel to their throats and leaves the room while the last man still twitches feebly under the blankets._

 

_On the bridge of the Dreadnought, she doesn't know where to sit first. The pilot seat would make the most sense, but there had been that little titbit of information about Dreadnoughts being operational with a single person calling the shots. The command seat it is, then, easily found by its elevated position and size. The controls in the seat's armrest are idiot-proof. The first thing Ann does is beam Khan's cryo-tube onto the bridge; if things go awry, she wants to die next to him._

 

_She makes a curious discovery when she calls up a star chart: there are routes for her to choose from already programmed into the_ Saracen's _navigation. They fairly jump out at her, as if wanting to be picked. Ann is immediately suspicious. New Vulcan –_ New _? - Tandar, Arakon..._

 

“ _Computer. Identify locations T1 through T6.”_

 

_The_ Saracen's _computer voice is male and pleasantly soft. “Known resistance colonies.”_

 

_Resistance? Resistance to_ what _? “Set destination: New Vulcan. Warp speed.”_

 

“ _Destination set.” The pilot console in front and to the left of Ann lights up. “Estimated arrival: 18 hours, 44 minutes. Confirm command.”_

 

_Ann taps a finger against the armrest. “Confirm.”_

 


	7. SEVEN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** some rather detailed scenes of violence and descriptions of corpses in this chapter.

\- - -

 

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

 

\- - -

 

Jim's return to Earth doesn't happen at all like he expected. He tells himself he's ready; he isn't: not for this. San Francisco greets him like an old friend, with sights and sounds speaking to places in mind and memory he's locked away for ten years. The city hasn't changed _at all_ , is still a beauty to behold there on the edge of the ocean, bright, streamlined and clean like a diamond under the winter sun. 

 

It's not the bastion of Reborn atrocities he imagined in his darkest hours, when he furtively looked for oblivion at the bottom of bottles, there but always out of reach. It's San Francisco; the Golden Gate Bridge spans the bay, the skyscrapers catch and reflect the pale winter light; the people on the sidewalks are the same kind of people Jim came across on any ordinary day, back then: shoppers, tourists, school children, couples, workers. 

 

There is no blankness, no emptiness in the cheerful faces preparing for the upcoming Christmas celebrations. There are no marches down the streets, in military precision, to pay homage to the empire, the _better_ they now all are. No unfamiliar, new anthem blares from the speakers – Wham!'s _Last Christmas_ , the most over-used song of all times, assaults Jim's ears from far too many shop doors – and no sinister-looking agents of the regime lurk in corners to oversee the flock. 

 

It's all so _normal_. 

 

And all so wrong.

 

The first hint that it isn't all candy-coated nicety and happy, disease-free, self-repairing Reborn comes when Jim switches on the news when they're safely hidden away in one of Khan's hideouts. It's a tiny, cramped apartment, a shoe box in a tower of shoe boxes for people attempting to afford San Francisco on an average wage, on the edge of downtown. The single window faces the back of the next apartment block. There's a narrow bed, a desk, a chair, a corner offering the bare necessities: replicator and synthesizer. The walls are a drab gray and the floor is covered with a threadbare, gray carpet. The bathroom is barely larger than the one on the _Bug_. 

 

“How are you paying for this stuff?” Jim asks as they walk in. He hadn't asked about the hotel bill, but funding ten years' worth of apartment rent, even for a cheerless little hole like this, costs an amount of credits few people can afford on the kind of salary Khan would have made as Starfleet commander in a year, and Jim doubts Admiral Marcus bothered to pay Khan for his work. 

 

“Section 31 was ridiculously well-funded and scandalously mismanaged, between Marcus' underlings all attempting to garner the most support for their various projects.” Khan sheds his coat and scarf. “Once I understood the basics of today's bank system, it was child's play to misdirect some of those funds.”

 

“How much?”

 

Khan plants himself in the desk chair and begins to unpack the single bag they brought. “Around two million credits, initially. Stored under various identities at a number of institutes, none of which, I might add, are on Earth or tied to Starfleet or the Federation. I haven't yet had time to check all the accounts, but the main one swelled to almost five million, with interest.” 

 

Jim whistles. “Nice.” 

 

He takes a slow tour of the apartment, not that there's much to see, tries the synthesizer and the replicator to check if they're still functioning, and flops down on the bed with a cup of coffee. He's not tired, but with Khan at the desk bent over his precious virus capsules and a PaDD, the bed is the only place left for him to sit unless he takes the floor. Sipping slowly, Jim watches the other man until he notices the flat holo-screen built into the wall above the desk. The remote – the screen is one of the older models, without voice control – sits on the nightstand. 

 

Jim flips through channels until he finds a newscast. Ten years ago, not a day went by when the news wasn't dominated by discoveries made by Starfleet's foray into the depths of unknown space. All of that is absent now; the platinum-blond guy serving as the news anchor mostly talks about local events. International news are scarce as well, making Jim wonder if that's on purpose, if whatever regime's in place now – and there _has_ to be something that replaced Starfleet and the Federation – is trying to shut people in. Isolation is tried-and-true variable of oppression and management.

 

Yet in the middle of all the listed charity events, ballroom dances and gossip about local celebrities, one report does catch Jim's attention. It's a short piece about a sect living in the middle of nowhere, further inland. They call themselves the 'Pure', and from what little background information the report doles out, Jim deduces they're a rather large group of unaltered humans refusing to undergo vaccination. 

 

“...negotiations with these so-called 'Pure' has, so far, not yielded positive results.” The news anchor looks suitably concerned. “Local law enforcement under the lead of experienced hostage negotiator Bridget Nguyen, sister of esteemed San Francisco Council leader David Nguyen, have not yet managed to persuade the individuals in charge of the compound to release the children. In other news...”

 

Jim mutes the sound. “I think I'm going to be sick.” 

 

Khan, who stopped tinkering with his toys to watch the report as well, snorts under his breath. “Are you surprised?”

 

Surprised? No. Angry is more like it. Apparently now it's considered religious fanaticism to _not_ submit to vaccination. When the hell did everyone on Earth get replaced by their scary Twilight Zone twin? Jim doesn't deign to answer what he guesses is a largely rhetorical question, anyway, and turns off the holo-screen completely. “Hand me that second PaDD, would you? I want to know what this new council is supposed to be. This dump have access to Terra?” 

 

\- - -

 

_**( Jeremy Doyen, A History of Empires, publication date 2595 )** _

_'The role of the geneticist Doctor Michael Ellis ( 2216 – 2269 ) remains disputed among historians._

 

_To some, he is the spearheading figure in the rise of the 'Pure' resistance on Earth, while to others he is little more than a terrorist and murderer._

 

_It is known for a fact that during his tenure at the San Francisco Medical Center of Genetics ( SFMCG ), no less than 147 high-ranking former Starfleet members – among them Admiral Susan Kerensky, in 2265 – died undergoing their vaccination. Though these casualties were never officially linked to Doctor Ellis' presence at the SFMCG, Ellis himself ostensibly revealed to several of his later acquaintances that he had 'helped matters along'. As no verifiable witness accounts remain – Doctor Ellis purposely destroyed all his personal records shortly before fleeing San Francisco, and later urged members of the Pure resistance to do the same – we cannot ascertain the truth of that claim._

 

_We can, however, directly link Michael Ellis to the Augment revolt at the SFMCG, late in the summer of 2269. Remains of the computer virus used to destroy the security protocols of the SFMCG were later recovered after a complete system reboot, and traced back to Ellis' personal office computer. Ellis himself, in an interview he gave to members of the free press, admitted to the sabotage that led to the escape of the Augments known as 'Ann' and 'Khan Noonien Singh', as well as the deaths of 89 SFMCG employees._

 

_Admiral Tony Braddock, former head of Starfleet and later the leader of the human colony on New Vulcan, corroborated Ellis' story. However, Admiral Braddock's testimony was a direct result of torture following his abduction from New Vulcan. One must therefore exercise caution in taking any of Braddock's statements, which were released to the general public in the early summer of 2269, as gospel[...]._

 

_The Pure resistance – named so for the fact that its members had not undergone vaccination and thus remained unaltered humans, regardless of racial or social background – began in San Francisco. By 2267, the movement had spread beyond North America and gained followers in Asia and Europe. We do not know if it was founded by Michael Ellis, or if he simply emerged as one of the most 'active' members[...]._

 

_Michael Ellis was killed in October 2269, at the Pure resistance compound near Modesto, California. His death marked a turning point in the treatment of unaltered humans, especially once it was made known that during the botched and rushed annexation of the compound, 23 children were killed by law enforcement officers. The public outcry forced a change in policy, shifting away from the aggressive 'collect and vaccinate' to a more lenient 'observe and let live' strategy.'_

 

\- - -

 

After a few hours on the Terra Online Project, Jim realizes the changes Earth has undergone are more drastic than apparent at first sight. He also realizes that very little actual information has made it off the planet. Everyone outside of Earth space assumes humanity is now one homogenous mass of Reborn, while in reality it's closer to 80%. 

 

There are the indigenous tribes in Africa, Australia and the Amazon, kept preserved in their habitats for centuries, who have been left alone and untouched by vaccination. Europe and Scandinavia especially seem more reluctant to enforce the medical procedure; while all of the major cities are indeed in Reborn hands, Jim finds detailed descriptions of entire areas up north that are inhabited by unaltered humans – weak, unimportant areas, but still. 

 

Undecided whether he should rejoice at his findings, or despair at them, Jim sourly contemplates that a veritable plague has been sweeping Earth for years, of humanity's own making, and those not yet affected don't seem to give a damn. Perhaps they believe that their head-in-the-sand tactic will allow them to survive, but Jim's also read the articles on 'Expansion Tactics' published by the so-called Reborn Councils: it's only going to be a matter of time until the cities have settled their affairs and the people in charge will look to the rural areas. 

 

Realistically, Jim also knows there's nothing he can do about that. He's not here to save Earth. He's here to find Scotty, Sulu and the colonists, and if they deliver a gut punch to the Reborn in the process, well, he's not going to complain. It's not like he can turn back the wheel of time, or undo the vaccinations. 

 

What he can do is save the people worth saving, the ones that matter to him personally, and screw the rest: past a certain point, most people on Earth had to have known the truth behind the vaccine. It's their own fault that they decided to remain behind like a flock of goddamn sheep. 

 

He spends most of the first day in San Francisco with his eyes glued to the PaDD, with only a few breaks between long reading sessions for meals and trips to the bathroom. When night falls outside their shoebox windows, he admits temporary defeat. 

 

“I don't even know where to begin to look.” Jim's been poking through the various websites on San Francisco, but it's not like there's going to be one telling him where, exactly, his kidnapped friends have been taken. “From the looks of it, they just renamed most of the former Starfleet facilities to reflect the change in government. Here: Medical Center of Genetics, that's the former Academy hospital on campus. Then there's the San Francisco Re-Educational Center, also on campus. Christ, 're-educational'.” He shudders inwardly. “It's the old mission training ground.”

 

The websites provide pictures. The only visible change Jim can make out is the absence of the official Starfleet logo and the Federation flags outside. The iconic triangular symbol has been replaced by a star-shaped something which, Jim discovers, is supposed to represent the Reborn Empire. He can't even tell if it's a starfish, or a real star, or something else altogether. 

 

Jim looks up from the PaDD. Khan's been quiet all day, tinkering with the virus capsules. For the last two hours, however, he's been standing at the window, gazing out into the darkening sky. “I can't find anything like a detention center, or even just a run-of-the-mill prison. If the Reborn have,” he tries to come up with an adequate term, but the only thing that fits is, “concentration camps for unaltered humans, they're not on any maps of the city. You got any input?”

 

“Tell me about the hospital,” Khan demands. 

 

Jim relates what he knows, which isn't much. Aside from his post-Marcus, post-Khan stint as a patient and a few visits to crew members, he never paid much attention to the hospital. “I do know they did a lot of research there, but I don't know if the facility's equipped to handle prisoners.” His friends and the colonists would be treated as such. “I don't think it's a good idea to just waltz in on a guess and ask if they've recently got a shipment of colonists. Or if they've got your crew.”

 

Khan turns from the window, leaning against the sill. “We need someone on the inside.”

 

Jim quirks an eyebrow. “And by that, you mean...”

 

One corner of Khan's mouth curls up. “I did say I wanted someone to test the virus on.”

 

\- - -

 

_Warp speed travel is actually rather boring, Ann eventually decides, once the novelty of the blue streaks outside the bridge window has worn off. She heaves herself out of the command seat and staggers to the cryo-tube, collapsing in a heap next to it, resting her aching, burning brow against the cool metal._

 

_It is time to wake Khan. She can't risk delaying it any further; of course Ann could abandon the bridge and deliver herself into the care of the med-bot, but she doesn't trust the ship's computer to handle something unexpected, like an attack._

 

_She doesn't trust the med-bot, either, after she spends a few minutes reading up on what exactly a med-bot is. With the damage she's taken during the outbreak from the medical facility and the months and months of experiments piled on top, it's likely the damn thing will attempt to strap her to a bed, to enforce rest._

 

“ _Computer,” she hesitates, unsure of the terminology, “turn up the heat.”_

 

“ _Please specify a temperature,” comes the sonorous, patient reply._

 

“ _Forty degrees Celsius.” Almost immediately, the air around Ann warms up. It does nothing for the headache pounding behind her brow and temples, or the lethargy that's threatening to overwhelm her._

 

_She types a long sequence into the panel mounted on the top of the cryo-tube, waiting to hear the hum of internal machines starting the thawing process._

 

_Nothing happens._

 

_Ann types in the sequence again. She's been having short spells of dizziness for hours now; maybe she made a mistake._

 

_The cryo-tube remains unresponsive._

 

_Ann sits back on her heels, hands in her lap. Takes a long, slow breath, and enters the code a third time._

 

_Same result: nothing._

 

_The Augments' cryo-tubes had been stored in a specific order on their ship, the_ Botany Bay _. They had been arranged in such a fashion that anyone chancing upon them – a possibility they'd had to plan for – would have come across Khan's cryo-tube first when they entered the ship, then Ann's, then Joaquin's: leader, second-in-command, strategist. Khan would have woken Ann and Joaquin, who in turn would have woken the others._

 

_Ann wonders if Khan's cryo-tube_ has _been opened, or tampered with. She knows his code like the back of her own hand, and she isn't that far gone to mistype first 10 digits of the Fibonacci sequence three times._

 

_If Khan has been woken – if these bastards had experimented on him the same way they'd treated Ann and the others like labrats – and then frozen back up -_

 

_In a sudden fit of rage, Ann grips the computer panel and rips it off. Electricity skitters up between the cryo-tube and her arm, dissipating harmlessly, barely more than a tickle of pain and a few singed hairs. She tears at the smooth metal housing of the tube until it comes apart under her fingers, revealing the complicated network of cables, small closed-circuit computers and cooling units, all powered by a tiny reactor in the foot-end of the tube._

 

“ _I built them, you assholes!” Ann snarls between clenched teeth, throwing chunks of metal across the bridge. “I built them! Don't_ vex _me.”_

 

_The cryo-tube's innards lie exposed. She wipes sweat out of her eyes, remains bent over to catch her breath, to will the destructive rage away. Then she disconnects the necessary contacts, rewires a few cables, and nudges a tiny safety switch. The cooling units change color from blue to orange as the inner workings of the cryo-tube begin to thaw its sole occupant._

 

_Ann flops back into the command seat. “Computer, time of arrival on New Vulcan.”_

 

“ _7 hours and 26 minutes.”_

 

_She closes her eyes and drifts for a bit, listening to the crack and crinkle of thawing metal, until the ship's computer politely announces, “Proximity alert,” and the_ USS Saracen _shudders as if pummeled by the fist of an angry god._

 

\- - -

 

In the late evening of their second day on Earth, Khan and Jim go out. 

 

At night, the campus of the Starfleet Academy used to be one of the most beautiful places in San Francisco, and one of the liveliest. That never stopped Jim from seeking entertainment elsewhere, when classes were over. The campus was the place where he studied and slept, while the city provided the kind of stimulation he craved, the distraction, the pleasure. Jim loved the campus: it was his jump board to the stars. 

 

Now, he barely recognizes the place. The architecture hasn't changed, and like the rest of San Francisco there is no presence of guards to oversee the process of the people moving to and fro between the buildings – at least, none _visible_ – but the atmosphere is different, stifling in ways that make the hair on the back of Jim's neck stand on end. 

 

The most glaring, telling difference between the campus Jim knew and the campus as it is now is the marked absence of off-worlders. Starfleet had always prided itself on bringing together the best and the brightest of the galaxy, regardless of gender, origin or social status. On any given day, one would have met Vulcans, Tellarites, Andorians, even the odd Orion, unified by a cadet's uniform and a common goal: to become part of the Federation, to serve Starfleet, to one day set foot on a star ship and fly out into the unknown. 

 

Diversity was what made Starfleet great. 

 

There's no diversity now. The people passing by Jim and Khan are uniformly human. The political situation being what it is, Jim isn't surprised, yet it still looks and feels wrong. Going out into the black of space to find and meet the new, the unexpected, was what Starfleet was all about. This...is something different. The vaccine may have made humans better, may have _reborn_ them on a physical level, but it has changed so much more, and not for the good. 

 

Jim's willing to bet that the people attending classes here now are groomed specifically to fly and maintain Dreadnoughts, not to go out and explore space, to meet different species, to make new allies. He wonders what kind of doctrine they're raised on, what is taught in classes these days: that they are _better_ than everyone else, that the rest of the galaxy is out to get them? A culture of paranoia, spoon-fed to a generation that _should_ know better?

 

“I don't even want to begin to speculate about the psychological pressure.” Jim and Khan are crossing the wide boulevard that connects the main campus facilities with the former hospital grounds. They're walking slowly, arm in arm, bundled up against the cool wind, creating the illusion of a couple out for a nightly stroll. “It's not like we're talking about ancient history. These people here were teenagers when the vaccinations took place. They gotta remember how it was, before. How can they just accept it?”

 

Khan shrugs lightly. In addition to the up-turned collar of his coat, he's wearing a scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face to minimize the chance of recognition, so his voice comes out muffled. “It probably beats the alternative.” At Jim's inquisitive noise, he adds, “'Re-Educational Center'? Please tell me I'm not the only one thinking about brainwashing.”

 

Jim grunts under his breath. “Let's not talk about that.” It's better they don't. They walked past the old mission training grounds a little while ago. Jim remembers the place well; it was his favorite on the entire campus. Day or night, the training grounds usually teemed with activity. Now the squat building looks deserted, almost foreboding, despite the lights on behind the windows. 

 

And humans being what they are, Jim also can't dismiss the fact that the majority of people might just willingly accept things the way they are because they _prefer_ them that way. Earth has been holding its ground against a Klingon invasion for ten years now. Granted, the network of Dreadnoughts in orbit is probably the only thing that's keeping the Klingons from launching a full-scale attack, but no one can dispute the position of power Earth has gained since the Reborn took over. 

 

Humans like power, and they're willing to accept and do almost everything as long as they get to keep it. History has proven that, over and over again. 

 

_Well_ , Jim thinks, _you're in for a surprise, guys_.

 

There's less foot traffic on the hospital grounds, and a definite security presence. Jim and Khan claim a stone bench across from the entrance and watch the comings and goings for a while, until Khan says, “Him,” and Jim follows his gaze to a man in a lab-coat heading for the employee's parking lot. “Expensive suit under the lab coat,” Khan says, rising from the bench. “Too old to be a student, unless he's a slacker.”

 

“Let's find out.” Jim eyes the three guards loitering about the hospital entrance. They look like private security; that doesn't mean they don't know how to do their jobs. “Time for the boom?” He fingers the small remote detonator in his pocket. 

 

“Yes.”

 

Jim presses the button. The explosion on the other side of the campus lights up the night sky in a sudden bloom of orange and is followed a second later by a loud, resonating boom. Screams erupt from that direction. The guards run from the hospital entrance to the side to get a better view, one of them already with a communicator in hand. Jim and Khan move in the other direction and flank the lab-coated man, trapping him between them as everyone on the hospital grounds rushes to see what's going on. 

 

“Don't talk,” Jim says, jamming the muzzle of a hand phaser into the man's side, hard against his ribs. “Don't scream, don't try to run. I'll shoot you in the back if you do, just out of spite. Walk to your car. Slowly.”

 

Around them, people are running toward the source of the explosion. It's nothing drastic – just a small charge left in a waste bin inside a take-away coffee cup, enough to blow up the bin and a bit of the surroundings – but hopefully it'll buy them enough time. 

 

The man they've picked leads them to a hovercar amid hundreds of others in the employee parking lot. Jim gets into the back, careful to keep an eye on where the man keeps his hands. Khan gets into the front and turns around in the seat, pulling a hypo spray from his pocket. Before the man can protest, Khan grabs him by the wrist and jabs the hypo against the inside of his forearm, through the cloth of lab-coat and suit. “Name.”

 

The man stares from Jim to Khan to the hypo spray. He's short and pudgy, with graying hair and sagging jowls. “J-James Vaughan. Professor James Vaughan.”

 

“This hypo-spray contains a dosage of genetically altered Tellurian Plague.” Khan moves his index finger to lie over the hypo's trigger. “If you think your Reborn blood will save you, you're wrong. If you think I'm bluffing, I'm going to demonstrate to you that I'm not.”

 

Vaughan gulps audibly. They don't know what kind of professor he is, but the Tellurian Plague is one of the most widely known afflictions of the galaxy and _everyone_ in the medical field, no matter their specialty, knows about it. And Vaughan knows enough, apparently, to remain compliant. Sweat beads at his receding hairline as he struggles to maintain his composure. “What do you want?”

 

It's Jim's turn. “Two weeks ago, Dreadnoughts were sent to retrieve the people from the colonies. Do you know anything about that?” 

 

“I don't -” Vaughan squeals suddenly, high and terrified, when Khan nudges the hypo's trigger. “Stop! Yes, I heard about it. It was on the news. But I don't know where they took them, I swear!”

 

“Who would know?” Khan asks.

 

Vaughan licks his lips. He's about to hyperventilate, Jim thinks. “Probably the Council members.” He squirms a little, until Jim pushes the phaser even harder against his ribs, then belts out rapidly, “Maybe the Chief of Security for the, the military branch. They're located here, in San Francisco.”

 

Starfleet's Headquarters were replaced by the 'Imperial Forces Base': it's even located in the same building. Jim exchanges a look with Khan, who then leans forward between the front seats. “What about the Augments?” Vaughan goes rigid between them. Neither Jim nor Khan miss the telling reaction. “The Augments,” Khan repeats, softly. “Where are they?”

 

This time, Vaughan doesn't even pretend ignorance. “Th-there was a revolt – they – I don't know exactly what happened, it's all just rumors -”

 

Jim tenses. Khan's eyes have gone impossibly bright despite the low light in the hovercar. _Please, no_ , he thinks. 

 

“Captain,” Khan says, “get out of the car. Get away from the car. I'd like to talk to Mr. Vaughan alone.”

 

Jim gets out. He slams the door and leans against it, breathing cold night air. Sound filters in: the distant wail of sirens, the rustle of the wind over pavement, his own dull, steady heartbeat. A sharp knock against the hovercar window reminds him to get away from the vehicle. Jim crosses the parking lot, keeping his head down, and waits outside the bright circles of lights cast by the lamps. He keeps an eye out for company, but no one comes to listen to Vaughan's muffled screams. Everyone's too busy seeing what the explosion is all about. If there are cameras recording the parking lot, no one's paying any attention to them. 

 

It feels like an eternity passes; in reality, it's probably less than five minutes before a car door slams and Khan comes stalking across the parking lot, both hands thrust into his coat pockets. He stops an arm's length away from Jim. “I didn't use the virus on him.”

 

There's a streak of red across Khan's right cheek, just above the scarf. Jim doesn't move to wipe it away. “I see.” He nods in the direction of the hovercar. “Did he...?”

 

“Rumors. He was a pediatrician. Not very high up in the echelon.” Khan pulls his right hand from his pocket. His fingers are red, slick with gore. Contemplatively, Khan rubs thumb against index finger, makes a fist, shakes his hand: droplets spatter the ground between them. “There was an explosion here at the hospital, a little over a month ago. They were told it was an experiment gone wrong.”

 

Jim remembers the day when Scotty burst into his hospital room to break the news about the cover-up about the _USS Vengeance_. A weak story, but the public had bought it – everyone had bought it, except the people directly involved. The leadership on Earth has changed, but not the strategies. 

 

“One was rumored to have gotten away,” Khan says. 

 

“Ann.”

 

Khan nods. “He didn't know anything about the others.”

 

Jim glances at the hospital. So there had been a revolt, and somehow, Ann had gotten Khan and herself out and off the planet and into a Dreadnought. 

 

Khan looks at the nearby building as well. “I'm going in there.”

 

“Now?” Jim wants to protest that they still don't really know anything. They're no closer to locating Jim's friends and the colonists than they were ten minutes ago. They don't know if Khan's crew are still alive. All they have are rumors. 

 

“You don't have to come.”

 

Jim snorts. “Fuck that. Of course I'll come.” 

 

They head back to the hospital. Several staff members are standing outside the wide-open doors, talking in hushed voices. Jim can't see the security guards and assumes they're still at the explosion site. Inside the lobby, it's nearly deserted except for a bunch of receptionists behind a wide desk, all of whom are clustered around a single computer monitor. From the conversation going on there, Jim surmises they're watching a security feed of the area where the bomb detonated. 

 

One of the receptionists, a woman in a pinstripe blazer, looks up as they walk past. “Excuse me, can I help you gentlemen?”

 

“Just here to visit a friend,” Jim lies with a smile.

 

His charm is wasted on the woman. “Visiting hours are over, I'm afraid,” she says, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Perhaps you'd like to make an appoint -”

 

Khan vaults across the wide desk. The sole of his boot catches the woman right across the mouth, sending her flying back into her colleagues. Jim draws his phaser, turning once on his heel to mark exits and entrances. “Lock the entrance!” he shouts to Khan, and then fires a shot at the guards that come running out of an opening door in the back of the lobby. He hits the first guard center-mass, leaving a great, gaping hole, then dives for cover behind a support pillar. The guard he shot keeps stumbling forward a good ten feet or so, uncoordinated and wide-eyed, until he finally collapses. 

 

The grotesque sight of the forward-moving man with a football-sized hole in his middle serves as a potent reminder: these are Reborn, not mere humans. During Jim's fight with Khan on the _Bug_ , they dented the walls and destroyed the furniture, but neither of them managed to knock the other one out. It's going to be a lot harder to deal with adversaries, now. Jim adjusts his strategy accordingly and aims for the head of the next black-clad security guard. This time, his target doesn't wobble on like a drunkard, but falls to the ground immediately.

 

A quick glance to the side shows Khan in the middle of the group of receptionists. There's a knife in Khan's hand, flickering quicksilver-fast between the men and women trying to subdue him. 

 

No time to appreciate the aesthetics. Jim concentrates on the guards. He shoots three of them before the remaining ones wise up and take cover behind a sitting arrangement on the other side of the lobby. For a minute or so, all Jim knows is the staccato-flash of phaser shots whizzing past the support pillar he's hiding behind, the screams of the staff members outside when stray shots find their targets, the metal-into-flesh ' _thwunks_ ' accompanying Khan's deadly dance.

 

Then the lobby entrance closes. Metal shutters come down over the glass doors. Khan, behind the security desk, has shed coat and scarf and is leaning over the computer terminal there. The receptionists are gone, probably dead on the floor behind the desk, out of sight. 

 

“That way,” Khan says – _says,_ but Jim hears him, anyway – and points across the lobby.

 

To Jim's left, a bank of elevator doors lights up. Jim fumbles out of his jacket and scarf, fires another round at the security guards, and propels himself through one of the opening doors. The carriage is empty, thank god. He lands on his front, scrambles to turn around, and has a prime view of Khan behind the reception desk. 

 

And the small glass vial in Khan's hand. 

 

“Fuck,” Jim curses. “Hey! That's not what we planned!”

 

With a negligent flick of the wrist, Khan flings the vial in the direction of the security guards, who are now cottoning on to the fact that Jim isn't the only intruder, and ducks down. For a few, agonizingly long seconds, Jim can only watch how the desk and wall are riddled with phaser shots, wood splinters and glass flying, computer equipment dying in fizzles of electricity. 

 

Then the firing stops. Frantic, Jim hauls himself back to his feet, surprised when his left leg gives out under him. There's a scorch mark along his thigh, flesh blistered and the wound already cauterized from the heat of the phaser. He hadn't even noticed he's been shot. No matter. Jim doesn't feel any pain and when he shifts his weight onto that leg, it holds him.

 

Silence descends over the lobby. From his vantage point, Jim can't see what's going on with the guards. 

 

Then the choking sounds start. 

 

Khan comes out from behind the desk. He rounds it slowly, as though he has all the time in the world, and vanishes briefly out of sight as he moves to where the guards took up position. 

 

“Come on, come on!” Jim shouts impatiently, pulling the collar of his shirt up over his mouth and nose, wishing he hadn't discarded his scarf. His palm hovers over the button that shuts the elevator door, and if Khan doesn't make an appearance in the next ten seconds, those doors _are_ going to close. Jim has seen victims of the Tellurian Plague, and that is _not_ how he wants to end. 

 

Finally, Khan comes back into view, carrying two assault rifles. Jim yanks him into the elevator and jabs a finger at the door button. “You do realize we'll have to come back out this way? You could have at least given me a headstart.”

 

Khan hands him one of the rifles and lifts an eyebrow at Jim's impromptu air filter. “The virus doesn't spread _that_ quickly.” He scans the panel next to the door. They can either go one hundred floors up, or ten floors down. There is a card slot next to the button that marks the first sub-level. “We'll find something to cover your face with.” From a pocket, Khan pulls a bloodied key card with James Vaughan's name and picture on it, and shoves the card into the slot. Then he presses the button for the tenth sub-level. 

 

No use in starting an argument now. Jim leans against the elevator wall and tugs the collar of his shirt back down. “So, the virus. Is it working the way you wanted it to?”

 

“Quite,” Khan says, matter-of-fact. He doesn't elaborate, and Jim doesn't ask.

 

Down they go. 

 

Speed and the element of surprise will only work in their favor for so long. They might already have lost the advantage of both, depending on what kind of security – other than armed guards – is in place. The further down they go, the more they run the risk of trapping themselves in a place that could lock up around them like a vice. 

 

Jim knows this. He's fairly certain Khan knows it, too. 

 

The elevator passes the fifth sub-level when the interior lights turn red. A computerized voice states, “ _Danger! Viral outbreak detected! Ground level contaminated._ ” and a panel of the carriage wall pops open. Jim is so surprised he nearly shoots the damn thing. Then he investigates, finding neatly packed protection suits and breathing masks in the small compartment the panel was covering up. 

 

Right. Former hospital. 

 

He dons a mask and ignores the suits. He's sweating, and hungry, and his fingertips are turning cold. Damn Augment repair. 

 

With a melodious 'ding', the elevator arrives on the tenth sub-level. Khan flattens himself against the wall next to the door. Jim does the same on the other side. The computer voice has gone from warning about a viral outbreak to, “ _Security lock-down initiated. All personnel, proceed to decontamination areas immediately. This is not a drill. Repeat. Security lock-down initiated,_ ” repeating the warning over and over again. 

 

The elevator door opens. 

 

The hailstorm of phaser shots Jim anticipated to greet them doesn't happen. Instead, there's the unsteady flicker of broken lights and a low sonorous hum. Jim looks over at Khan just in time to see his nostrils flare and head jerk back, expression showing revulsion. 

 

Jim can't smell anything, thanks to the mask over his mouth and nose. He motions at the remaining masks in the compartment, but Khan ignores it. Rifle at the ready, Khan glances around the door, then walks out of the elevator. Jim follows close behind. 

 

They walk into a graveyard. 

 

The elevator opens into a wide corridor that curves sharply at the far end. The overhead lights flicker erratically, some of them hanging from cables almost all the way down to the floor. The walls show scorch marks and large, dark brown splatter patterns that extend from floor to ceiling in crazy, story-telling arcs. Glass crunches under Jim's boot just a few steps in; he looks down to find he stepped on the remains of a glass beaker. 

 

But glass isn't the only thing he finds there. The same large splatter patterns that cover the walls are on the floor as well. There are entire pools of it, caked and flaking, unmistakably blood. There are dried drag marks, and bits and pieces of medical equipment – extractors, hypo sprays, the torn remains of a lab coat – everywhere. 

 

They don't get more than ten feet down the corridor before Khan suddenly turns around and heads back to the elevator. Jim's about to ask what the hell is going on, but Khan only jams the elevator door open with the bit of paneling that popped off earlier. 

 

Oh. Good idea, that. 

 

With an unobstructed view of the rest of the corridor, Jim finally sees the corpses. Lying like discarded dolls, they're at a stage of decomposition that makes identification impossible. Jim can't even tell if he's looking at women or men. 

 

Or Augments.

 

But the corpses are dressed in the same kind of black uniform the security guards wore, and here and there putrefying hands are still clenched around hand phasers and rifles. The stench must be abysmal. Glad for the mask he's wearing, Jim cautiously moves on until he comes across a corpse dressed in a nurse's outfit. A mop of long, blond hair obscures the remains of an obviously crushed and flattened skull. Jim stares at a long, naked thigh exposed by the short skirt, the flesh sagging off the bone in seeping, pink-green-black stripes, and nearly throws up. 

 

Khan strides past him without even a glance at the corpses. Jim looks back over his shoulder to see the elevator door wedged open, tries to calm his roiling stomach, and follows a few steps behind. 

 

The picture changes drastically as they round the bend of the corridor. The floor, ceiling and walls are more than scorched and splattered; it looks like a bomb detonated here, tearing great, gaping holes into the standing structures. A lone cable hanging from the remains of a light fixture jumps and twitches with weak sparks of electricity. 

 

To their left are doors. They're open, some torn off their hinges, obstructing the debris-strewn path Jim and Khan pick carefully as they move on. Jim glances through an open doorway and sees an empty room, bare of furniture or other trappings, save for a mattress on the floor. The next room is no different. 

 

“What happened here?” Jim asks. 

 

“A last stand,” Khan answers. He sounds weirdly detached, controlled. 

 

Jim doesn't buy it. He's spent enough time around Khan by now to look through the cold masks the man puts up, prides himself on knowing at least a little of what goes through Khan's mind. He doesn't like what he sees, at all – neither the destruction around them, the leftovers of whatever catastrophe took place here, nor the rage in Khan's storm-colored eyes. 

 

Most of all, he can't believe the callousness of the people in charge of the hospital. If what Jim's looking at right now is really the legacy of Ann's flight from this place, then no one bothered to clean up after her. No one bothered to retrieve the corpses, either. It takes a special kind of depravity to leave your employees here to rot, while ten floor further up, it's business as usual. 

 

But why? Whatever happened here is over. Why not come down here and clean up, restore order? 

 

They follow the corridor to the end, and Jim gets an answer to his question. Behind a large cogwheel door, they find corpses that are dressed differently than the others, in loose white pants and shirts. Lined up orderly against the walls of what Jim surmises is an operation theater, with a defunct med-bot assembly hovering threateningly over a large bio-bed and carts full of scanners, drips and other medical paraphernalia, these corpses haven't been shot, or torn apart, or burnt. They look like they died where they sat, their backs to the walls, heads resting on drawn up knees, like warriors of old gone to sleep. Some have fallen over to the side, sprawled ungainly, wedged up against their neighbors. 

 

Khan takes two steps into the room and falls utterly, utterly still and silent. The rifle slips out of his hands and clatters to the floor. Concerned, Jim reaches for him, but before his palm makes contact, Khan's legs seem to give out, and he folds down. He doesn't collapse entirely – just to his knees – and catches himself with his hands against the floor, a strange, strangled sob escaping him, immediately stifled. 

 

Jim doesn't ask, _Are they...?_ because they have to be. Khan doesn't care about humans or Reborn, or anything else that lives a sentient life in the galaxy; he wouldn't react like that for anyone but his crew. Uncomfortable and unsure if offered comfort would be welcomed, or even appropriate, Jim stands by helplessly while Khan falls apart _quietly_. 

 

A nagging voice in Jim's head tells him they can't stay here. There are still Scotty, Sulu and the colonists to find and rescue. He looks around, embarrassed by his own line of thoughts, and tries to figure out what happened. A last stand, yes...and once Ann had gotten out with Khan's cryo-tube, the remaining Augments must have holed up here and held down the fort.

 

They probably starved to death, in the end. Jim can't see any obvious wounds, and the walls and the floor of the operating theater are clean. As he looks around, Jim realizes something isn't quite right with this picture: there are only nine corpses in the room. Khan's crew numbered 72. Minus Ann makes 71. Minus nine – Jim counts again, just to be sure – makes for 62 Augments that should be here, but aren't. 

 

Where are the rest?

 

Jim's quiet contemplations and Khan's even quieter mourning is interrupted by a distant, melodious 'ding'. 

 

“Khan.” Jim moves to the doorway, glancing down the corridor. “We can't stay here, come on.” Over the occasional electrical fizzle and the hum of the broken lights, Jim can distinctly make out the footfall of people wearing heavy boots. “ _Khan_.”

 

With none of his usual, chilling grace, Khan rises back to his feet. He retrieves the rifle, finding his way to Jim's side with an unsteady gait. Jim tries to read the other man's expression, but there's only worrying emptiness there. Jim has seen that thousand-yard-stare before, in the colonies, even earlier, when he was still captain of the _Enterprise_. 

 

He never knew how to deal with grief before, and now's no different. “What do you need?” Jim asks instead of offering clumsy condolences. The sound of footsteps draws closer and closer, but he figures they have this one moment, and he'll take it. “That's nine of them. Did you count? Nine.”

 

Khan straightens imperceptibly. There are tear tracks down his cheeks Jim won't comment on. His voice comes out gravelly and hoarse. “Nine too many.” He hefts the rifle, gaze shifting away from Jim. “What they did. To them.” One slow rise and fall of Khan's chest, and he's rediscovering his equilibrium, settling back into himself. “Keep that mask on.”

 

Before Jim can ask why, something small, round and heavy hits the floor outside the cogwheel door, spinning in place and emitting a fast-spreading fog and a deafening screech. _Grenade_ , Jim thinks. He takes an involuntary step back, lips parting to issue a warning, and is swept off his feet by the blast wave a second later, tumbling into darkness.

 

\- - -

 

_Ann plays catch-me with the pursuing Dreadnoughts for a while. It's not a game, and she isn't amused, but she has no other options than to keep moving, moving, in the hope that she'll either shake the tail or come across something promising – a planet, another ship,_ something _-_

 

“ _Proximity alert,” the computer announces. By now, Ann_ hates _the kind, bored-sounding voice with a passion._

 

_There's an obstruction of some kind in the arbitrary path she chose, picked up by one of the three dozen scanners Ann hasn't had time to devote more than a passing glance to. It's not a planet, not a comet, and it's not an asteroid, either._

 

_She drops the_ Saracen _out of warp almost on top of whatever it is that's in her path. The blurry outlines on the screen in front of her sharpen and solidify into the concrete shape of another ship, tiny and barely worth the mention. It's just sitting there, right in the middle of a nebula on the edge of what the Dreadnought's computer informs her is the 'Romulan' neutral zone, wherever that is._

 

_With a loud pop, the glass screen of Khan's cryo-tube opens._

 

_Ann makes a split-second decision and hails the other ship._

 

\- - -

 

Jim regains consciousness surrounded by corpses. The ground trembles under him and there's a distorted, muffled backdrop of sound, shouts and screams and the bright, rapid rhythm of phaser guns. Jolted back into awareness, Jim claws at his face for a second because there's something grabbing it, until he recognizes the contraption as the breathing mask he put on earlier. 

 

He looks around. Around him, nine dead Augments, silently vigilant. 

 

And no Khan.

 

The ground trembles again. Jim's addled brain belatedly informs him there's obviously a firefight going on somewhere close by; the tremors translating from the floor into Jim's bones feel like the comforting hum of the _Bug's_ warp engines humming to life. He sits up, checking for his limbs, for great, gushing wounds – that grenade went off right next to the door – and finds no wounds, but all his limbs, and they seem to be in working order. He grabs the assault rifle he must have dropped when he fell. 

 

It would have been too good to be true, for them to not only make their way into the hospital but also back out again, unscathed. Jim figures they gambled that away when they walked into the lobby, Khan hellbent on finding his people and Jim, Jim far too ready to help him. 

 

No use crying over spilled milk. Judging by the noise, Khan's in the middle of decimating whoever came down to the tenth sub-level to stop them. Jim hurries outside. He isn't worried about Khan – this is the man who took on a squad of Klingons and _won –_ but eager to join the fight. Scotty, Sulu, and colonists are still out there somewhere. Hopefully. If the Reborn treated them the same way they treated the Augments...

 

Jim feels no kinship to the Augments, feels little more for them than pity they probably would have scoffed at, had they been in a position to do so, but _god_ , this isn't just the Starfleet Jim didn't sign up for, this – nine dead Augments and a sub-level full of corpses – isn't the _planet_ Jim once called home. 

 

There are more corpses now as Jim edges back out into the corridor, fresher ones. Khan's nowhere in sight, but the noise sounds like it's coming from closer to the elevators. 

 

It sounds like the fight is about to end. 

 

Jim jogs around the corner just in time to see Khan ram the butt of a rifle into the face of a security guard. With a low moan, the woman goes down, feebly curling her arms around her head. Then Khan whips around, rifle aimed at Jim.

 

“Easy.” Jim slows down. “It's me.” Khan lowers the weapon. His eyes are far too bright, feverish under disheveled hair. The black shirt he's wearing has a few holes in it now, the edges singed. The wounds don't seem to bother him. In fact... Jim hooks a finger into one of the holes over Khan's left shoulder and tugs, revealing pinkish, new skin. “They built you to last, all right.” 

 

Jim lets go and steps back. Khan reacted neither to the tugging nor to Jim's comment, but the rage rolling off of him is palpable. 

 

The female security guard stares up at them through the protective barrier of her arms. She flinches when Khan grabs her by the front of her uniform and drags her up to her feet, but offers no resistance. Her name tag reads 'Captain Vasquez', and she growls angrily when Khan pushes her against the corridor wall. 

 

She spits at him. “Rot in hell, bastard.” Her nose is crooked, blood streaming freely down over her mouth and chin. She keeps her hands at her sides, palms flat against the wall, but defiance is written in every line of her posture and the glare she directs at Khan and Jim. “You'll never get out of here alive.”

 

“Neither will you,” Khan states flatly. “The only decision you'll have to make is whether you'll go with dignity, or rotting from the inside out.” He pulls one of the virus vials from his pocket and holds it up. “The latter could take days.”

 

She eyes the vial. One of her hands strays up to the breathing mask hanging from its straps around her neck, but then her gaze hardens and she flattens her palm against the wall again. Eerily calm for someone in her position, she looks at Khan, then at Jim. 

 

“You're ex-Starfleet, aren't you?” Jim asks. The kind of self-control the woman is showing is scarcely found among private security personnel. She's young enough to have been a cadet, ten years ago. “Did you serve?”

 

“What's it to you?” she snaps. 

 

“I used to be a captain.” Jim shoulders the rifle. “The _Enterprise_ was mine.”

 

If the name means anything to her, she doesn't show it. Vasquez scoffs. “So what. We were all something else before we were reborn.”

 

“Poetic.” Jim hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Explain to me how someone who once swore to uphold good and freedom in Federation space can support something like this.”

 

'This' is a corpse-riddled corridor and a room full of dead Augments. Vasquez' gaze strays to the fresher corpses, an expression of unease and guilt crossing her face. Then her expression hardens again. “It pays the bills. And these loonies deserved -”

 

Khan backhands her so hard she falls over. He's over her in a flash, knees pinning her arms against the floor. Jim's got to hand it to the woman, she doesn't give up easily. Pinned as she is, Vasquez yanks her knees up into Khan's back, right into the kidneys, attempting to topple them over. 

 

Khan doesn't budge. He lays a hand against her throat, deceptively gently. “Last chance. Where are the rest of the Augments?”

 

“And the people who were taken from the colonies a month ago,” Jim interjects quickly.

 

Vasquez finally gives up trying to ruin Khan's kidneys. She glances at Jim, mutinously. “I don't know anything about that.” Her gaze shifts to Khan, eyes narrowing. A mocking, defiant smirk appears on her lips. “There are no others. They all died here, and they deserved it. Holed up like fucking animals, in the end.” Khan's fingers twitch around her throat. “We didn't even have to do anything. We just had to _wait_.”

 

“Wait a second.” Jim stares back down the corridor. “There were 72 Augments. There's only nine in that room back there. What happened to the rest?”

 

Vasquez never takes her eyes off Khan, and Jim realizes what she's doing even as she says, “They never survived the thawing. Whoever the hell you are, you're _way_ too late to -”

 

“Khan, wait!” Jim tries to reach for the other man's shoulder. “She's baiting -”

 

Too late. Khan growls under his breath and crushes her throat before Jim can get another word in or intervene. Jim averts his gaze until the gurgling and the thrum of her heels against the floor stops. 

 

When it's over, he tries to gauge Khan's state of mind. “She could have been lying.” 

 

Khan sits back on his heels. His hands, Jim notices with shock, are trembling. Carefully, Jim takes a slow step back – if Vasquez wasn't lying, they've arrived at the worst of all possible outcomes: the people Khan spent a year trying to save, Khan's crew, are gone. 

 

 


	8. EIGHT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter - I don't know, guys. I beat and prodded it, and then prodded it some more, but it's one of _those_ chapters, and I'll just leave it like this. And I would like to thank everyone who's taken the time and left me a comment: I'm petting them all like they're wee, fluffy kittens. Unfortunately, it often takes me a few days ( *cough*weeks*cough* ) to respond, but I wanted to say that I do appreciate them.

\- - -

  


**CHAPTER EIGHT**

  


\- - -

  


_**From: Holloway, J. ( SFMCG - Administrator )** _

_**Recipient: Nguyen, D. ( Council )** _

  


_**Subject: re: re: augments** _

  


_Council Leader Nguyen,_

  


_I present to you the findings of the recent trial runs re: inoculation against bacterial strain 6-GH-D ( Salaren Fever, Beta Quadrant ). Please see the attached file for detailed statistics. My staff have completed their initial tests and we are proud to announce that within the month, serialized production of the immunizing serum can begin._

  


_Furthermore, I request that you reconsider your stance on the treatment of the remaining test subjects. While the Augments are indeed neither human nor Reborn and thus cannot claim any of the protections we would extend to the inhabitants of Earth, they are valuable assets that should not be squandered away ruthlessly. I am aware my predecessors have made stunning leaps especially in the fields of vaccination and research – they have also, however, drastically reduced the available test subjects to a number I no longer consider acceptable._

  


_As it stands now, only six Augments remain alive._

  


_I strongly urge you to consider an end to the current medical trials, and to return these six individuals to their cryo-tubes or to transfer them to a facility that can both guarantee their health as well as public safety. The future of the empire's medical research hinges on them, and we should not waste them needlessly. What may look like a setback in current research now may well prove a blessing to future Reborn generations._

  


_\- Jennifer Holloway_

  


\- - -

  


“She could have been lying,” Jim repeats lamely, a minute into the staring contest that follows Captain Vasquez' death. A meaningless statement – Captain Vasquez is irretrievably dead and unavailable to confirm or deny the accusation. Jim winces when he takes in the woman's purple-crushed throat, her empty-open eyes and petite form, flat on the floor with a nightmare sitting on her chest. Not a pretty way to go, that. 

  


Khan unfolds from his lifeless seat. The tremor in his hands stops as if switched off. For an uncomfortably long moment, neither of them moves, surrounded by destruction and corpses, the twitch and spark of electricity from torn cables. Then, with a sleepwalker's safe step, he turns and heads for the wedged-open elevator door. 

  


Jim yanks the breathing mask off. “No.” Two steps and a fast pivot put him squarely in Khan's path – god only knows what the other man is thinking, but Jim has an inkling, and it's ugly. There are nine sub-levels and one hundred levels above-ground for Khan to vent his ire on. “Stop.” 

  


Khan tilts his head, just so. He bites out, “What?”

  


Jim's mouth opens and closes, unsure. It doesn't work like that between them: there is no commander here, no willing follower. Their relationship is a delicate balance of giving and taking in equal measure, and Jim swallows dryly as he contemplates upsetting the status quo. He's not sure he can – not with Khan looking at him as if he's planning the fastest way _through_ Jim, eyes flat and lips pinched. He's not sure he wants to. 

  


A change of tactics, then. “Do you even realize what you're doing?” Deliberately, Jim leaves himself open, the rifle between them but pointed at the ground. “Every time you think you lost them, you go crazy. It's like you're losing control. And then no one can keep up with you anymore.” 

  


It comes out a little more accusatory than Jim intends, but it's true. Threaten his people, and Khan goes into planning-mode, backup plans piled up for all eventualities. Make him think he _lost_ his people – and in this case, he did lose nine – and all that meticulous planning goes out the window, leaving behind an individual whose switches have all been flipped to the kill setting. 

  


Jim doesn't know what it is; is it a normal reaction for Khan? A condition bred into the Augment genes, like a self-destruct, thought up by creators who planned further than cooking up perfect soldiers, who wanted a failsafe? 

  


He knows he doesn't care for it. He doesn't want to be left behind, especially not now, when Khan looks like he'll just keep going until he either runs out of targets or runs into something he can't overcome. Surely, there are more guards on the floors above them, better armed, better _informed_ , with orders not to apprehend but to kill. 

  


The thought of losing Khan makes Jim's heart lurch sideways. Whether it's to a suicide run or a Reborn's gun, it's _unacceptable_. Queasy with the sudden revelation of how much his feelings for the other man have changed – without him noticing - Jim takes a step closer. “Don't leave me behind.” It's not easy, throwing that out there, not when it feels like he's offering a part of himself on a silver platter, but now it _is_ out there, and Jim resolutely forces down the queasiness. “Don't you dare leave me behind. Ever.”

  


Khan stares at him as though the words don't quite translate from Jim's lips into his mind, lost somewhere in transition between them, in the coppery, thick air. Then, little by little, Khan seems to come back to himself. The murky rage leaves him as if he's slipping off a shroud, and he straightens, teeth flashing briefly between his lips: a pained-looking grimace. 

  


“They sat down and _died._ ” It's a whisper, barely more than shunted air, followed by sudden, stark understanding on Jim's part. To an Augment, that's probably the worst outcome of all. Giving up, giving in, waiting for the end to come, that's the antithesis of everything Jim knows about Khan, everything _he_ considers a decent way to go. 

  


Jim doesn't attempt to offer sympathies. Platitudes won't work here. What he needs, what he wants, is to get Khan out of this hellish place and back to their shoe box of an apartment, where they both can fall apart safely for a while. Where they can regroup and plan, and when this is over – when they have what they came for, when the Reborn Empire, this sick, sad joke that used to be Jim's home, is lying in ruin – he'll pack Khan and the Augments and whoever else wants to come onto a ship. 

  


Anywhere will do, as long as it's far away from here. 

  


Startled at the direction his thoughts are taking, Jim clears his throat. “Let's get out of here.” 

  


Khan glances at the ceiling above them. “But -”

  


“We'll come back.” With more of a plan than just forcing their way in, if he has anything to say about it. There might be other Augments somewhere on the floors above them, somewhere on the campus, yet by now the entire hospital will know Jim and Khan are down here. Khan's rampage through the squad of security guards may have bought them some breathing space, but it's time for a strategic retreat. “We need more information, first.”

  


“Fine.” The flat tone of voice is a perfect indicator just how much Khan _doesn't_ want that, and Jim understands, he _does_ , but Khan is giving in, willing to follow. In this moment, that's all that counts. 

  


Khan following instead of leading. How many times has _that_ happened before? Jim decides it's a contemplation for another time, another place. There will be a time to sort through all of this later, when - 

  


A loud beep startles them both. A man's muffled voice comes from somewhere behind Khan: “ _Captain Vasquez, are you there?_ ” They turn simultaneously to stare at the dead woman, a sequence of beeps interrupted by a whine of electronics followed by, “ _Damn it, Jones, boost that signal. And tell the med team to be on stand-by._ ” Then, louder and clearer than before, the man's voice booms, “ _Captain Vasquez, come in!_ ”

  


Jim blinks, struck by inspiration. “I have an idea.”

  


Khan plucks the communicator from Captain Vasquez' belt. “So do I.”

  


Two minutes later, they re-materialize in another part of the San Francisco Medical Center of Genetics. Before the small, windowless room even comes into full focus around them, Jim lifts his rifle. At a transporter console across from the beaming pad, a surprised-looking tech – Jones, presumably – gapes at them. Next to him, a bulky guard in black uniform, communicator in one hand, fumbles for the phaser gun in his hip holster. 

  


Jim shoots the guard first. The tech raises both hands in alarm, high above his head. “Don't shoot! Don't shoot!”

  


Jim shoots. He's above and beyond done with the Reborn. 

  


Khan jogs across the room to the transporter console, shoving the dead tech off his chair. Jim sights down his rifle at the only door leading into this room, ears straining to pick up sounds from outside. The hospital's name may have changed, but the layout hasn't; he knows where they are. Every hospital on Earth has these internal transporter rooms, usually used for critical care patients beamed down directly from star ships to the surface of the planet. 

  


That's how _he_ arrived in the hospital, ten years ago. That the Reborn now use this room to conveniently transport guards around the facility, irregardless of a lock down being in place, is a blessing. It's Jim's and Khan's ticket to freedom.

  


Soft, hurried footsteps outside the door. Khan, at the console, quickly entering a series of coordinates, runs back to the beaming pad. Just before the swirling, golden lights whisk them away, the door to the transporter room crashes open and three guards pile in, weapons drawn. 

  


_Too late,_ Jim thinks, grimly amused. 

  


A confusing second later, Jim and Khan materialize someplace else. Pale light falls in through a large bay window offering a breathtaking view of San Francisco's night skyline, illuminating a tastefully arranged sitting area. Mutely patterned carpet, pictures on the walls and the windowsill, house plants in the corners – there's nothing of 'Jim' left in the place, no traces of his hazardous taste in interior decoration. 

  


The coffee table they stand on cracks and collapses under their weight with a loud crash. 

  


“Where are we?” Khan stares into the shadows, tense like a coiled spring. 

  


“My old apartment.” Thankfully, whoever's living here now doesn't appear to be in. “Come on.” Jim leads the way to the front door, then out into the hallway. The name plates on the doors across and to either side of his old place bear the same names they did ten years ago. “Those were the only coordinates I could remember.”

  


Khan makes a noncommittal sound. 

  


As they hurry down familiar hallways, headed for the emergency stairs Jim hopes are still easily accessible, it occurs to Jim that he feels nothing. No rush of homesickness, no longing, not even anger that the place he used to live in isn't his anymore. It's just a place now, filled with pale memories of a time long gone. 

  


Just like Earth. 

  


\- - -

  


_Watching the gold light wrap itself sinuously around Khan's recumbent form, Ann experiences a moment where it feels as though she's betraying him. She vowed to get Khan to safety; all she managed was to get him off the planet. Now she's handing him over to a frantic-looking man in civilian clothes, whose word that he isn't a Reborn is all Ann can rely on._

  


_The logical part of her mind attempts to soothe the ruffled feathers of the perfectionist – there are Dreadnoughts guarding Earth, ships aren't allowed to leave the planet,_ this _tiny ship doesn't look like it belongs to anyone's official fleet, the man wears no insignia – but it's the soldier in her that muscles on and makes the hard decision._

  


_She lets Khan go, even as all her instincts tell her that it's_ wrong _._

  


“ _Hey, wait a damn second!” the stranger shouts. “What are you sending -”_

  


_Behind him, in the unlit recesses of the small ship, a swirl of gold announces Khan's arrival. Ann can't see him, attention split between three screens, one showing the stranger, the second tracking four dots closing in fast on their location, and the third, the third..._

  


“ _Go.” On the other side of the_ USS Saracen's _bridge, an entire console lights up red, flashing a warning. “I've disabled the reactor cooling system. This ship's about to blow. You want to be far away when it does.”_

  


_She hopes the other ships will be_ close _enough when it does._

  


_The stranger gapes at her. He reverses direction mid-step, and for a second all Ann can see are his eyes, strange, bright blue. Behind him, the golden light settles._

  


_She prays Khan will be awake enough to deal with the stranger. “Good bye.”_

  


_The last three seconds of Ann's life happen quickly: the small ship lurches forward, like the cork of a champagne bottle under too much pressure, and disappears, leaving behind a thin trail of particles. The countdown on the third screen, its border now arterial-red, flashing repeatedly as the_ Saracen's _computer attempts to inform Ann of the imminent catastrophe about to take place, reaches zero._

  


_The ship's voice, pleasantly polite, announces, “Proximity alert.”_

  


_Ann closes her eyes._ This isn't giving up _, she thinks._ It's doing what is necessary.

  


\- - -

  


The trip back to the hideout is a trip down memory lane, after all; Jim dredges up every last scrap of knowledge of San Francisco's backstreets and leads them as far away from his old apartment as possible, then doubles them back, along dark, narrow streets where the cool, blue lights don't reach and the air smells of sea-salt and urine. Jim actively sought out these places when he was a cadet at Starfleet Academy, a bit of the delinquent from his teenage years carried over into the adult and with it a love for the not-so-clean, the underbelly of the glittering city. 

  


There was always a bit of a thrill accompanying his frequent trips into the half-forgotten bars the yuppies turned their noses up at, the seedy dives along the waterfront where alcohol was cheap and company easy to come by. He always hoped to run into someone from the Academy, just for a chance of saying, _Well, fancy meeting_ you _here_. He was hanging onto his formative years with a tenacity that bordered on obsession, a stubborn refusal to give in to what Pike and a handful of others saw in him: that he was destined for greater, better things. 

  


It's all so far removed from him now, scenes from a life no longer his, years that, in retrospect, were wasted on adolescent rebellion. Jim wonders how things would have progressed if he'd cleaned up just a little bit faster. He excelled in his classes, surpassing his peers in both intellect and prowess, except in matters of discipline and toeing the line. 

  


Never got hang of that, really: toeing the line. Discipline he had in overabundance, later, just _different_ from the one drilled into cadets: disciplined in his love for his crew, his faith in the _Enterprise_ , his disregard of the rules when it counted, when there was more on the line than the rules were worth. 

  


If he hadn't had that, that bit of _different_...perhaps there'd now be a James Tiberius Kirk in the command seat of a Dreadnought, reborn. The thought is sobering enough to steer him away from depressive contemplations about the would haves and could haves. 

  


At his side, Khan walks with the steadfast gait of a man with a definite goal in mind, but his eyes are dull, his expression is drawn, and the thin, phaser-torn shirt he's wearing does little to hide the fact that his skin is clammy with a thin sheen of sweat despite the cold wind. They left their coats and scarves behind at the hospital. Jim carries his rifle, held down against his leg. 

  


A random chronometer in a shop window reads 23:51. “We should stop somewhere for food.” The hideout's replicator and synthesizer unit functions, but Khan looks like he'll need more than a few, bland meals. They're less than half a mile away from their destination, they can afford a short delay. “There's bound to be something open.”

  


“No,” Khan says, monotonously. “Just – inside.”

  


Jim took the shockwave of a flashbang grenade meant to incapacitate; Khan took the brunt of a squad of guards opening fire on him. He's not a hole-riddled, wounded man dragging himself away from the front line, but he's not moving right, either, slower, as if he only wants to reach a safe place. Augment repair must be catching up to him. 

  


“All right.” Jim himself feels a bit beat, though it's more the slow fade of adrenaline rather than injury. His leg holds him fine – just a flesh wound. Not enough to topple him headlong into the comatose state of recuperation, which he's only experienced once so far, and doesn't particularly care to experience again. “We're almost there.”

  


Then they are. Khan disappears into the bathroom while Jim locks the door and draws the blinds. He kicks off his boots, leans the rifle against the wall next to the bed, and listens to the hiss of the water as the shower starts. He could use one himself, but nothing about Khan's demeanor indicated he'd welcome company, so Jim contends himself with a quick wash at the sink. Behind the narrow shower cubicle's frosted walls, Khan is a long line barely darker than the clinically white tiles. 

  


_Fuck it_. 

  


Jim pulls open the cubicle's sliding door, met with a waft of steam and a pair of narrowed eyes fringed by water-spiked lashes. “Budge up.” There's barely enough room for one man, let alone two. Jim plasters himself all over Khan, crowds him back until they're both under the stream of water, and yanks the door shut again. 

  


Khan stares at him with barely veiled hostility. “I'm not in the mood.” 

  


Jim sinks to his knees. “No?” There's so little room to move he ends up between the cubicle wall and Khan's solid thighs, glass against his back, water-slick skin against his front, knees on the hard floor. He looks up at Khan, blinking against the drops of water raining down on them both. “I'm on my knees in front of you. That doesn't turn you on even a little bit?”

  


“ You'll be on your back outside the shower, _through_ the glass, in ten seconds.” Khan's hands flex against the wall behind him. “What are you playing at?”

  


Jim shrugs. “I'm not playing.” He doesn't even have to move to put his mouth where he wants it, just flicks his tongue out, tasting water and thin skin. They're pressed so close together there's no way Khan's reaction escapes Jim's notice, the miniscule jerk, the twitch of filling flesh right in front of him. “I'm not allowed to comfort you?” He licks, longer this time, a teasing strip from the tip of Khan's dick to the base. “It's a basic reaction, to want to comfort the people you,” he catches himself just in time, he's not ready to say _that_ out loud, “care about. You're going to deny me that?”

  


Khan's eyebrows knit together. “Emotional blackmail. How original.”

  


Jim nuzzles into the patch of wiry hair at the delta of Khan's legs. He's not going to answer that one. They both know exactly what this is, what Jim wants. He's the one on his knees, offering. 

  


Hostility fading slightly, Khan sighs. He ghosts a hand over the side of Jim's head, the caress lighter than the water falling on them. “I'm not a fragile glass doll. I'm not going to break.” 

  


“No,” Jim agrees, “you're not.” _You wouldn't. You'd explode, and you'd take everyone around with you_. He slides his palms up the backs of Khan's legs, curving them around his thighs, just under the swell of Khan's buttocks. “You're going to fuck my mouth. That's what you'll do.”

  


He opens his mouth wide, letting the tip of Khan's cock slide in between his lips, uses his tongue to coax it in further. Water runs into his mouth, down his face – water everywhere, and steam, so hot sweat breaks out on Jim's skin. Above him, Khan's eyes widen, lips shaped around words that never come. Jim tilts his head so Khan can _see_ , plays his tongue against the underside of the hardening shaft, along the thick vein there.

  


Khan's head drops back against the shower wall with an audible thunk. His hips – _glide_ forward, a short, aborted motion. From his vantage point Jim can only see the frantic bobbing of Khan's throat, the long, sinuous line of his upper body, slick with water. Up above the crest of one defined cheekbone, a curve of dark eyelashes - 

  


Jim's hard so suddenly it feels like a punch to the gut. His frantic moan causes a sharp hiss further up, a flex of muscles against his palms, everywhere they're pressed together. Jim seals his lips around Khan's dick and sucks, hollowing his cheeks, and then there's a hand in his hair, long fingers curling with inhuman strength, and Khan rocks forward. 

  


Air instantly becomes a precious commodity. Khan is neither overly long nor thick, but he slides right in, all the way to the back of Jim's throat, slick and warm and faintly bitter, challenging Jim's gag reflex. He pulls back, Jim gasping for air, Jim staring up while a thick haze spreads in his mind, staring up into eyes that are all pupil now. 

  


Jim grins, as much as he can with already stretched lips. _Come on._

  


Khan must have picked up the unspoken message, because he does what Jim's asked him to: he fucks Jim's mouth. Jim learns to draw breath when he can. It's filthy, and wonderful, and the power rush of it goes straight to Jim's head, because there's Khan's hand holding his head in place but it's Jim's _mouth_ that drives Khan to the brink, too soon, and it's Jim who, after he's swallowed and swallowed and blinked the water out of his eyes, holds Khan against the wall when his knees threaten to buckle, soothing him through the aftershocks. 

  


They buckle anyway. Khan slides down, landing on his butt between Jim's thighs, his own bracketing Jim's hips. Locked into each other like a puzzle, like complicated origami that takes an age to fold, Jim catches his breath while Khan stares at him, flushed from his cheeks all the way down to his nipples. Khan drags him forward by the grip he still has on Jim's hair, until their lips are only millimeters apart. “Your idea of 'care' is to -”

  


“ Yeah,” Jim murmurs, “yeah,” and he's grinning again, Khan sounding so _destroyed_ , “shock to the system, wanted to make sure you're _here_ , and -”

  


“Jim -”

  


Jim huffs a startled laugh, train of thought derailing. “ _Now_ you say my name? Did I finally earn the honor, or what?”

  


It's the wrong thing to say. Khan's gaze slides to the side as he lets go of Jim's hair, dropping his hand to the floor. “You lack context. You don't know what it was like.”

  


The abrupt shift in mood takes care of the afterglow completely. Jim sits back on his heels. Awareness of the less pleasant side effects of giving a blowjob on his knees on a hard floor seeps in. He shifts to alleviate some of the strain, works his jaw from side to side. His erection is fading slowly now that they're no longer on a carnal track, and that's not a sensation Jim enjoys. “What _what_ was like?”

  


“The wars. We didn't bother with names for a long time. Not for,” Khan makes an aborted gesture between them. “Not until we were certain. It was just a waste of time, before. It was easier to stick to titles. Ranks.”

  


There's a tale waiting to be told there, about a past Jim still knows only fragments of. Jim focuses on what matters: the short flick of fingers between them, that audible pause between words _. Certain_. Some of his earlier queasiness returns, along with a dose of nervousness. But layered over that is something else, settling between his ribs like a nugget of warmth, a giddy smugness. He grins, nudging Khan's knee with his elbow. “'Certain'?”

  


Khan rolls his eyes, mobile lips squiggling. His face takes on an expression of haughty disdain, carefully constructed, letting on that Jim, perhaps, isn't the only one who is uncomfortable saying the unspeakable out loud. _“_ If you're waiting for a declaration of my undying -”

  


Jim shuts him up with his mouth, in the best way he knows how. 

  


\- - -

  


_**Transcript: UNITED NATIONS, Council of 1967** _

_**Classified Information** _

_**( TR: Toben, State Secretary UN Council, #22-02-01, EU Ambassador )** _

  


_**RESTRICTED ACCESS. INDEXED.** _

  


_'[…] must not squander this opportunity. Good men and women are dying on the battlefields every day. We have the knowledge and the financial means to put an end to this senseless sacrifice of our best. How long until we see the folly of these endless wars over oil, over gold, over fertile soil? Earth is large enough for all of us. Is it truly so far-fetched to hope for a world free of racial segregation and greed, a world where the poor don't starve in the streets of the cities built on their bones and paved with their sweat? A world where enlightenment prevails and knowledge seeds comfort, rather than fragile, temporary peace bought with the blood of our sons and daughters?_

  


_So I am suggesting, no, I am imploring you to consider the following: an army of leaders, not of lambs led to the slaughter. An army of scientists, of peace keepers, to root out the war lords and their mercenary bands that terrorize the nations, these warmongers that thrive on chaos, pain and conquest. An army of examples, if you will, to demonstrate the resolve of the United Nations to prevent our planet to plunge back into the Stone Age.[...]'_

  


_**( TR: Eugene, Prof., Camp Hope, New Zealand, 1970 )** _

  


_**RESTRICTED ACCESS. INDEXED.** _

  


_[...]The growth rate exceeds all expectations. The subjects exhibit cognitive and ambulatory capability far outstripping conventionally assumed within age groups 00 – 04. Physiologically, motor function and strength approaches that of children and adolescents aged 10 - 15 and older.[...]_

  


_**( TR: Amanda Thorvald,** 'The Talk' **, aired 1982 )** _

  


_**PURGED. REMAINING COPIES INDEXED.** _

  


_**Ms. Thorvarld:** 'No, I'll tell you what I am. I am scared. I am scared for these children, and for us. We've bred our own army of superiors, and you're about to let them loose on a world that's not prepared for them. How long until they realize that they're nothing but lab-raised janitors doing  **our** dirty work? How long until they look at mankind and think, 'Gee, what a waste of time and resources, let's get rid of them'?' _

  


_**APPLAUSE** _

  


_**Prof. Eugene:** 'Well, that'd stop the wars, for one.'  **LAUGHTER** 'Miss Thorvald, while I understand your concerns, I assure you that we haven't bred or raised machines. They are human beings -' _

  


_**Ms. Thorvald:** 'With minds like robots! Have you ever sat down and talked to one of them? Have you? God -' _

  


_**Prof. Eugene:** 'Ms. Thorvald, please. I consider myself something of a father to all of them. Of course I've spoken to them. I speak to them every day. I tell them how proud I am of their progress, their insight, their achievements. They're neither an army of mindless automatons set on ridding the world of evil, nor are they a man-made plague about to subjugate the nations, as you keep insinuating.' _

  


_**( TR: Camp Beechgate, Greater London Area, Emergency Transmission, 1985 )** _

  


_**PUBLIC RECORD. AVAILABLE.** _

  


_**CBG:** [Static]- help now! We need help, now! _

_**Metr. Station:** What's the nature of your emergency? _

_**CBG:** It's the Augments! They've gone mad! They [Static] – overrun – [Static] – headed for London, and they're not taking prisoners. They killed General Landers and set the goddamn air field on fire. We can't airlift anyone to safety, I repeat – [Static] _

_**Metr. Station:** Repeat, please. _

_**CBG:** [Static] _

_**Metr. Station:** Camp Beechgate, come in. Beechgate. Come in. Hello? _

  


_**( TR: Diary of a Survivor, Kent Raymond West, 1941 – 1987, London )** _

_'Laying low is the only way to stay alive. Laying low, and doing as they say. God, I hate them. Sodding bastards and their superiority complex. Last week they gathered everyone in Camden and that one leader of them stood there on a podium and ranted about how weak we all are, how stupid. It went on for hours. Like we're all a just a bunch of kids, needing to be taken by the hand and shown the error of our ways._

  


_And I hate to say it, but there's some in the community that agree with these bastards. Saying that we had it coming, all that shite. That we brought it on ourselves, and if we hadn't pissed away the natural resources, hadn't started wars over oil and gold and all that other crap no one really needs, we wouldn't be in the ditch now, keeping our heads down. That maybe, the Augments are like God's angels, come to cleanse us._

  


_Load of shite. Bootlicking, that's what this is, nothing more. I'm not a religious man, but if there's a God out there, he's laughing himself sick right now. Not at the angel stuff, or any of the other nutjobs proclaiming the Augments to be the eighth plague, but laughing at_ us _. And we'd deserve it.'_

  


\- - -

  


Khan sleeps for nearly twenty hours, hogging all the covers and the single pillow. He wakes once, after the first twelve, chokes down an amount of food that makes Jim feel bloated just watching him put away, goes for a piss, and then climbs back into bed, at once reverting into stillness broken only by the occasional twitch of a limb. 

  


Jim swears he can _see_ the burn patterns of new, pink skin on Khan's chest, back and shoulders assume the pallor of the rest of his skin, the healing progress sped up by Khan's comatose state. Jim sleeps as well, though not as long, crawls out of bed for his own large meal, then stays awake, flipping through channels on the holo-screen. 

  


The explosion on the edge of the campus has made the news. The release of the virus inside the San Francisco Medical Center of Genetics and their subsequent trip into the sub-levels, hasn't. The explosion was put down to – of all things – a cadet prank. A joke gone wrong. There were no casualties, only structural damage and a few Reborn with busted eardrums, scrapes and bruises. 

  


Jim finds nothing on James Vaughan. If his body has been discovered, it's kept under wraps as well.

  


Jim carries the single chair over to the window, puts his feet up on the windowsill, his head back, and thinks things through. Their first foray into Reborn territory hasn't been a complete loss: if anything, it's shown them what they need. Information. Someone on the inside of things who can either be intimidated or persuaded to give up the locations of the colonists and the remaining Augments. 

  


It'll be like finding a penny on the bottom of the ocean. With the way the inhabitants of San Francisco have acclimatized to both the new regime and their changed, personal circumstances, Jim doubts they'll easily find anyone willing to help them. If the new regime – the 'First Reborn Council, San Francisco chapter' – has halfway competent people working for them, all official facilities will now have tighter security, if they haven't been locked down already, while investigations into the events at the hospital are underway. 

  


By now, Jim will also have been identified, maybe even recognized, by the security footage from the lobby of the hospital, the elevator, the tenth sub-level. Captain Vasquez more or less admitted to having been a Starfleet cadet; there will be others, perhaps even some of Jim's peers, who now work for the Reborn, embracing this brand new hellhole of a world and their place in it. 

  


He couldn't care less if he's identified or if some of his old classmates or colleagues recognize him; it's going to make moving about harder, that's all. Let them scream it from the rooftops, that he's here, come to upset their prfect, little lives. 

  


He's not going to forget what he saw in the bowels of the hospital, not anytime soon. 

  


Jim reaches for the PaDD he left on the edge of the desk, calling up the search interface of the Terra Online Project. Behind him, Khan stirs, a shift of long limbs under the blankets. Jim watches him for a few minutes, filled with the warm glow of affection. They hadn't spoken after the shower, Khan turning seriously droopy-eyed minutes after the kiss. As far as Jim is concerned, nothing else _needs_ to be said. 

  


Khan turns his head on the pillow. “'timesit?”

  


Jim consults the PaDD. “Half past three.” Belatedly, he adds, “In the afternoon. November 23rd, 2269, to be exact.”

  


“Mm.”

  


“Do you want to sleep longer?”

  


“Mm. No.”

  


Jim turns back to the PaDD before Khan gets an eyeful of the silly grin that found its way onto Jim's lips without his say-so. Jim's libido appreciates just-woke-up-Khan to a great extent, but the squinty-eyed individual stretching languidly under rumpled blankets is downright _cute_ , and that's not something Jim will ever say out loud. Not even at gunpoint. Khan's head would probably explode at hearing himself being described as something so... _not_ -Khan. 

  


Diverting his attention to the search interface, Jim types in 'San Francisco Medical Center of Genetics', listening with half an ear to the creak of the box springs behind him. He's read through the information before, has gone through the official website. It's nothing that's going to be of any use to them. They could abduct the department heads one after the other until they finally come upon someone who knows about the Augments and the colonists, but that's a line of inquiry that would dry up fast. They'd get two, maybe three, before the rest wizened up and either disappeared of their own volition, or were whisked to safety. 

  


He's halfway down the list of researchers for the Physics department when he comes across a name that suddenly stands out. 

  


_Margaret E. Wallace_. 

  


Wallace. Carol Marcus' mother's surname was Wallace. 

  


Probably just a coincidence. 'Wallace' isn't exactly a unique name. 

  


But if it _is_ Carol's mother...

  


Khan rolls out of bed, strolling into the bathroom. Distracted for three seconds – that _ass_ \- Jim calls up the woman's mini-biography. Margaret Wallace looks to be in her late fifties, stern-faced, with a disapproving expression. There's no mention of a daughter named Carol in the short blurb under her picture, nor anything about a marriage to the late, disgraced Admiral Alexander Marcus. 

  


Margaret Wallace's credentials, however, are impressive. Graduated top of her class from Starfleet Academy, majoring in applied physics, engineering and weapons research. Biomechanical engineer specialized in prosthetic limb replacement. Published papers on engineering, warp travel and nano-technology, the latter with a heavy focus on neuro-surgery and its wider field. 

  


A veritable genius. And she's published her papers long before the vaccine made the rounds, so her achievements aren't tied to the beneficial effects of genetic mutation. 

  


Carol Marcus had been a weapons specialist. Coincidence?

  


Jim chews on his lower lip. Carol Marcus died on the _Enterprise_ in 2262, when the ship was destroyed in orbit above Tandar. Rocky start aside, Jim and Carol had become quite good friends toward the end, the occasional, halfhearted flirt – his – and gentle but firm rebuke – hers – aside. 

  


By Reborn definition, Carol would have been considered a traitor to the Empire, for the simple fact that she remained on the _Enterprise_ when Jim made the decision to broadcast the truth about the vaccine. They'd discussed this at length; Jim had made sure his entire crew knew they could opt out without repercussions. Carol, by familiar ties more intimately linked to the events of 2259 than most others, had stayed. 

  


They'd all stayed. Jim shifts in the chair, willing the memories of that time back down. 

  


“If that is Carol Marcus' mother, she might have cut all ties to her family to avoid being singled out, labeled a traitor.” 

  


“Fuck!” Jim nearly fumbles the PaDD. He glares up at Khan, who stands behind him. Naked. Jim forces his gaze not to stray. “Don't creep up on me like that.”

  


Khan smirks. “Don't be so oblivious.” He leans over Jim, plucking the PaDD out of his hands. “I knew Carol Marcus.”

  


Jim sits up. “Really? How?”

  


“ She was a frequent visitor to the underground base in London, the one beneath the Kelvin Memorial Archive. Her father gave her access to nearly all of the on-going projects. I doubt, though, that she was truly aware of the extent of research, or that more than half of it was classified.” Khan returns to the bed, sitting on the edge. 

  


“She knew about the torpedoes,” Jim ventures.

  


“She would. She probably saw them more than once. They were stored there.”

  


“Were you...friendly?”

  


Khan spears Jim with an unfriendly glare. “No. We never had any direct contact then. She was free to run around her father's pet projects, while my people lay helpless and frozen right under her nose.”

  


Feeling nettled, Jim frowns. “Carol wasn't in on Marcus' plans, if that's what you're thinking. She smuggled her way onto the _Enterprise_ because she thought her father was up to no good. She was the one who opened one of the torpedoes, after you dared me to, and she stayed on the _Enterprise_ even after you crushed her dad's skull.” 

  


Khan drops his gaze to the PaDD. “I see.”

  


Change of topic. Bringing up the past and the people involved in _that_ specific time is one of those things Jim feels are better left untouched. One day they'll have to talk it out, just to put it behind them, but today isn't the day. He swivels around in the chair, straddling it so he can cross his arms on the back and his chin on top of his arms. “We should initiate contact. With Margaret Wallace, I mean. Just to see if she's really Carol's mother. She might not be too happy that her daughter died under,” Jim makes the air quotes, “'friendly fire'. Maybe she's willing to help us.”

  


“Or she purposely didn't mention Carol in her biography because she's ashamed her daughter was a traitor.” 

  


That's true. Still, “We need to start somewhere.” Jim attempts to judge the risk they'll have to take; first to establish that Margaret E. Wallace truly is Carol Marcus' mother, then to see if the woman will help them. If Margaret Wallace isn't Carol's mother, well, there's one more dead Reborn. If she _is_ , there's still the possibility that she won't help. “Is there an address listed? Any contact data?”

  


Khan glances at the PaDD. “No.” He taps away at the screen, lips crooking. “But there are three 'M. Wallace' listed in the city directory, and two more in the greater San Francisco area.”.

  


“Pick one. We'll just work our way through them.” Jim stands, returning the chair to its place by the desk. “And you're doing that on purpose.” Khan looks a question at him. “That.” Jim points. “Where you're wandering through the apartment naked and then sit with your legs spread.”

  


Khan makes a point of looking down at himself. His face is perfectly composed when he looks back up. “You have a one-track mind.”

  


“Not really.” Jim thinks about it and amends, “I used to. It just...stopped mattering, for a while.” A _long_ while: ten years. Leaning against the edge of the desk, Jim crosses his arms over his chest and unashamedly lets his gaze wander over Khan's body. “You're making me rediscover it.”

  


A slight dig: “In the middle of our crusade against the Reborn.”

  


Jim shrugs. Depending on who you ask, he's either always had the best or the worst timing. “Any day could be our last.” He's not going to dance around his wants, his desires. “I want you so much.” It's frightening, just how much he wants. “Anything. Everything. Forever.” 

  


Khan's sarcastic smirk fades. “We don't have forever. No one does.”

  


“No. But we have _now_.”

  


Just like that, the mood shifts, the slight bantering tone between them giving way to a loaded silence. Khan drops the PaDD onto the floor, leaning back on his elbows, his thighs moving a bit further apart. Jim isn't entirely sure if the position is meant to be enticing – he can't really imagine that Khan's creators tutored the Augments in the art of seduction; it kind of feels asinine to make that assumption, as it's a skill set Khan hardly needs, what with all the _other_ skills he has – but it works for him. Pretty much everything Khan does works for him. Heat begins to build in the cradle of his pelvis as he looks his fill, letting anticipation feed his desire. 

  


And as pressed for time as they are, Jim wants a slow, long fuck, the kind that leaves everyone sweaty and exhausted and _done_. Sucking Khan off was great; he'd like to do that again, and more. His dick twitches happily when he thinks about splaying those long legs wide open, maybe lifting them over his shoulders, sinking _in_. 

  


Jim's belly clenches. _That, yes_. _Definitely that_. They haven't done that yet. 

  


He crosses the space between the desk and the bed in two strides, unhurried, and stands between Khan's spread legs. A frisson of apprehension halts him there, wavering. He doesn't give a crap about who's on top, but maybe Khan does. He's definitely alpha material. Jim drags his fingertips from Khan's knees up his thighs. “Do you -”

  


Khan rolls his eyes. “Yes.”

  


Jim draws a face. “You don't even know what I was going to ask.”

  


“The answer is still 'yes'.” Khan slips two fingers into his own mouth. 

  


Jim's teeth snap together with a resounding click. Scratch that – seduction was _definitely_ included in Khan's training. That, or Khan's a natural. Transfixed by the glimpses of pink tongue laving around and between pale digits, Jim struggles to rid himself off his pants as quickly as possible. He's got them down to his ankles when Khan pulls his fingers, shiny with spit, out of his mouth and touches them to a nipple, circling the small peak. The sight makes Jim's mouth water, and the erection that didn't go anywhere before they went to sleep returns with a vengeance, hot and hard and heavy between his legs. 

  


“You're a menace,” Jim growls, and _fuck_ his pants. 

  


He loses track of things, for a while. He later remembers flinging his pants clear across the room; he remembers pouncing and being caught in strong arms. Khan arcs under him, wantonly, ankles hooked around the backs of Jim's thighs, teeth sharp against the side of Jim's neck, his shoulder, his collar bones. At one point, Jim guides Khan's fingers into his mouth again, guiding them down afterward and then sitting back and watching, hungrily, and slipping in his own finger slick with spit when Khan's belly is contracting rhythmically. 

  


They don't have lube. Neither of them is willing to leave the bed long enough to coax something from the synthesizer. Desperately, Jim thinks that just because Khan is an Augment, he shouldn't - “Wait,” Jim gasps, though his body screams _don't you dare wait_ , “we don't – you shouldn't – I don't want to hurt -”

  


Khan laughs. _Laughs_. There's a smear of madness in the sound, a trace of mockery. Jim's reduced to heat and urge and then he's on his back, their positions reversed smoothly. Khan comes over him like a riptide, pinning him to the bed, inferno-hot inside. Tight. Almost too tight, not wet enough, and Jim feels every inch and makes a sound that's half-pleasure, half-agony. 

  


He's left with lightning flashes of impression: Khan watching, eyes glittering and dark. His hips canting and rolling, liquid and decadent. The tip of his tongue appearing between his lips, leaving a smear of wetness Jim reaches up to touch. Khan nibbles on the tips of his fingers. 

  


And later, minutes or hours later, Jim rolling them over, pulling out and pushing Khan's legs up, knees to shoulders, Jim's tongue lapping, stroking at abused flesh, drawing shivers and shudders and helpless, uninhibited moans from him, but also demands for _deeper, more_. 

  


It's slicker, smoother afterward, Khan's cock a brand of heat between their bellies. It's gentler, slower, affirming. It's making love, not fucking. Jim never knew there was a difference. He knows it now – finds it in the clench of arms around his back and the shared breaths, the slow and incandescent built. He holds them both there, on the edge, until he can't anymore. 

  


\- - -

  


It's night again, when they set out. 

  


They go for nondescript clothes, no weapons, no bags. Khan seems to have taken to carrying a handful of deadly vials in one pocket; Jim doesn't comment but it makes him nervous, especially since he can't very well walk around with a breathing mask strapped over his face. He tries not to think about Khan falling or bumping into something: glass breaks far too easily. 

  


Neither of them willing to risk the public transport system, they rent a hovercar online, and walk to pick it up two miles away from the apartment. It's a small, dingy thing, fitting with the alias Khan digs up to rent it through. 

  


The first M. Wallace is an old man, living on the ground floor of a decrepit housing block on the edge of the waterfront. He cups a hand to his ear when Jim apologizes about getting the wrong house, smiles a little sadly when Jim declines the offer of a cup of coffee. The second M. Wallace is a mother of two, mid-twenties, red hair. They don't even have to ring the doorbell, watching the woman herd her children in from the front lawn of the suburban bungalow she lives in. 

  


The third M. Wallace tries to slam the door in Jim's face, obviously recognizing him. He gets a foot in, braces his shoulder against the door, and shoves. She's strong – much stronger than her small frame suggests, and she's determined. She's also yelling for help at the top of her lungs. 

  


Khan rams his heel against the door, and both Jim and M. Wallace go flying into her apartment. Jim gets a mouthful of carpet and rug burn on his elbows. Then he gets a kick to the face – M. Wallace scrambles backward on hands and butt, until Khan takes a long step over Jim's prone form and clamps a hand over the woman's mouth, bearing her onto the floor. 

  


Jim kicks the door shut. “We just want to talk.” He gets his first, good look at M. Wallace. The picture in the online biography doesn't do her justice. Jim can easily see the resemblance between this woman and Carol Marcus now – the same, defined jaw, the same deep set eyes, the same generous lips. “You're Carol's mom. Carol Marcus?”

  


Margaret E. Wallace stops clawing at Khan's wrist and hand. Her eyes are lighter than Carol's, a bright, piercing blue. She glares at him, and then, as if she's unwilling, her gaze wanders to the man kneeling over her. There's no fear in her, only loathing. Finally, she nods, as much as she can with Khan's grip on her face. 

  


Jim sighs. Good first impressions and all that. “We need your help.”

  


Twenty minutes later, they're sitting around a kitchen table. That is, Jim and Margaret Wallace are sitting. Khan stands, motionless, in front of the kitchen door, arms crossed over his chest. 

  


Margaret Wallace massages her temples, eyes shut, lips pinched. Elbows on the table, she slowly shakes her head. Her hair is darker than Carol's was, blond shading into brunette, with traces of gray. She must have been stunning when she was younger; now, she's refined-looking, with crow's feet in the corners of her eyes. 

  


She drops her hands to the table. “I don't want to believe a single word.” She peers closely at Jim. “Carol used to tell me about you. She was so proud when after that ugly business with Alexander, you gave her a permanent position on the _Enterprise_. I was happy for her. She loved her job, and she was really fond of you.” Margaret draws a deep breath, hunching in on herself. “And then three years later, you got her killed.”

  


The words sting. It wasn't Jim that bombarded the _Enterprise_ in orbit above Tandar. He can be held accountable for making the decision to tell everyone about the truth behind the vaccine, but never in his wildest dreams – back then – had Jim anticipated the Reborn would come after them with the intent to destroy an entire ship. An oversight on his part, perhaps, but even now it strikes him as petty retaliation. The truth had already been spread. Shooting down the _Enterprise_ hadn't stopped the colonies from forming, the exodus of people from Earth. 

  


Jim keeps his mouth shut. You can't argue with grief. Margaret Wallace still mourns the loss of her daughter. 

  


“As for the rest...” Margaret sighs disgustedly. “Yes, I know about the Augments.” She glances at Khan. “I was in the center when they staged their revolt. When Doctor Ellis...helped them.”

  


Jim looks at Khan and leaves it to him to pick up from here. The other man hasn't moved, but his entire focus is now on the woman at the table. “Where are they?”

  


“Why should I tell you?” Margaret crosses her arms over her chest, mirroring Khan's posture. “Going by what you just told me, you're planning on liberating your people, and then what? You expect me to believe that the man who crashed the _Vengeance_ into San Francisco and killed thousands of innocents would be satisfied with just leaving?”

  


“No,” Khan says softly, “I expect you to believe that if you _don't_ tell me where they are, I will kill you here and now. I will burn every city on this planet to the ground _until_ I find them. I will murder every woman, man and child until someone gives me what I want. And when I have them, then, _maybe_ , I will be _satisfied_ and leave.”

  


For a long, frozen moment, Margaret stares at Khan, her composure fraying. 

  


“I would take that offer, if I were you,” Jim says evenly. It doesn't feel right, threatening a woman who's already lost so much, but as much as Jim sympathizes with Margaret for losing Carol, Margaret is _here_. On Earth. In a well-paid, prestigious position as a scientist and researcher, living in a large, expensively furnished apartment in a prestigious neighborhood. They don't know – she certainly hasn't let on – if Margaret herself was in on the experiments done on the Augments. “Tell me something: did you know they sent Dreadnoughts out to the colonies?”

  


Margaret nods. She can't seem to look away from Khan, though.

  


“And,” Jim continues, “did you know that they kidnapped thousands of people from there? And then bombarded the colonies, leaving nothing but smoking ruins?” At her surprised expression, he allows himself a mirthless smile. “Ah. I guess that didn't make the gossip rounds everywhere. Well, then. These people have done nothing more than make use of their right to live where they damn well want, without being experimented on without their consent. And I get it – the vaccination made you all so much _better_. That doesn't give you, or anyone, the right to -”

  


“Oh, shut up!” Margaret yells. Stunned, Jim shuts up. “You think it was easy?” She sneers at him, angrily. “What choice did I have? It was either going in voluntarily, or risk losing everything. I'd already lost Carol. _And_ my husband.”

  


Khan crosses the kitchen. “Your husband was a warmonger, a liar and a blackmailer.” He trails his fingers over the edge of the table. There's a strange sound – something hard scraping over the glossy wood finish. Jim sees one of the virus vials, held between Khan's fingers. “This conversation is over. Choose, Mrs. Wallace.”

  


Margaret has heard the sound, too. “What – what is that?”

  


“Tellurian Plague. A modified strain.” 

  


“Oh my god,” she whispers, staring at the vial. “That – that was you. At the center.”

  


“Yes.” Khan holds the vial up to the kitchen light. 

  


Visibly, Margaret Wallace shrinks in on herself again, her earlier burst of outrage gone. She looks frail now, old. Jim's certain the threat of the virus isn't the only reason. They've pretty much upturned everything Margaret believed in, from how the _Vengeance_ ended up in San Francisco, to the origin of the vaccine. “The surviving Augments were refrozen and transferred to a holding facility underneath the City Council building.”

  


“And the colonists?” Jim prompts.

  


“I don't know.” Margaret looks from Jim to Khan, spreading her hands on the table. “I really don't know.”

  


“Thank you, Mrs. Wallace.” Khan pockets the vial. He cocks his head at the woman. “I hear Orion is nice, this time of year. Take a vacation. Fast. I suggest leaving in the next two or three days.” 

  


Jim doesn't know whether to be surprised or grateful; so they're not killing her. Maybe. He wouldn't put it past Khan to tie Margaret to a chair and then crack the vial at her feet before they leave. 

  


As it is, he'll be glad to get out of here. The longer Jim stays in Margaret's presence, the more conflicting his emotions become. She's Carol's mother, and still she stayed on Earth. She was Alexander Marcus' wife, divorced, and yet she refers to him as husband. And in the end, she's a survivor: she weighted the odds and chose the path that made the most sense to her. She could have left Earth, but she had just as much of a right to _stay_ here as the colonists had a right to leave. 

  


He can't blame her for that. For any of it. He doesn't know how he'd decide, in her place. Jim wishes he could disassociate himself as easily as Khan seems to be able to; every time he finds he's done with the Reborn, something crops up that sows doubt in his heart. 

  


“We're leaving.” Khan looks at Margaret, calm and emotionless. “You can, of course, notify the authorities of our visit. You may even tell them what you told us. It won't make a difference.”

  


Margaret Wallace nods listlessly. “I believe I'll take the option to visit Orion.”

  


Jim eyes her, an idea forming. “Or New Vulcan. The colony is destroyed, but there are a few survivors. A handful, literally. They could use someone with your knowledge, especially in the medical field. And the Vulcans would take you in.” 

  


She scoffs. “As if the Vulcans would welcome a Reborn.”

  


“Why not?” Jim rises. “They welcomed me.”

  


Khan heads for the front door. Jim lingers behind a few steps, peeking through the window down six floors to the curb, where they left the rented hovercar. The street is well-lit but deserted. If anyone had heard Margaret's screams for help, they would have broken down the door by now. It should be safe enough to leave. 

  


Margaret touches him as he prepares to follow Khan, a furtive press of fingers at his wrist. Anxiously, she looks to the door, then leans in and whispers, “There are only six of them left.”

  


“Six...? Six Augments?” A cold ball forms in Jim's stomach. Six is better than none, but it's still worse than he dared consider. “Are you sure?”

  


“Yes.” She wraps her fingers around Jim's wrist, looking at him imploringly. “And for god's sake – I'm not the only one who didn't have much of a choice. Think about what you are doing, and _stop him_. Starfleet did this. You want to punish an entire planet for the transgressions of a few. Do you really want to stand by and watch the human race _die_?”

  


“What happened here was hardly a transgression.” Jim's shakes her grip lose. “Setting him free was my idea, remember?” They hadn't left that out when they told her how they'd come to be here. 

  


Margaret's expression turns cold. “Then you are as mad as he is. I'm beginning to wonder what Carol saw in you.” She steps away from him, retreating step by step. “The colonists you're so desperately trying to free – I'm sure they'll appreciate you coming to save them. But I wonder what you'll tell them when they ask _how_.”

  


There's an insinuation here Jim doesn't like. “What do you mean?”

  


The tone of Margaret's voice turns angry and dismissive. “I lost my daughter to the stars. I'll accept that it was Carol's choice to stay onboard the _Enterprise_. But the colonists...how many of _their_ friends and relatives are still here on Earth? How many of them didn't have a choice?”

  


“Look,” Jim sighs, gathering his thoughts. Lingering behind and listening to her was a mistake. It feels as if there's a whirlwind of doubt set loose within him, tearing at previously reinforced conviction. “We're not going to burn the whole damn planet down, all right?”

  


“Aren't you?”

  


He realizes he can't answer her without questioning everything he and Khan have talked about, the resolve Jim had found, his own, simmering anger at the Reborn. Jim stalks out of the apartment. The door slams behind him. At the end of the hallway, Khan is standing next to an open elevator door, studying him neutrally. “Is there a problem?”

  


“Let's just go,” Jim snaps, and hits the button for the ground floor. 

  


“What did she say to you?”

  


“Let it go.” It comes out more harshly than Jim intends. “Sorry.” He leans against the elevator's polished wall, attempting to exorcize the doubt. Next to him, Khan remains silent, his gaze a weight Jim can't ignore. Doesn't want to ignore, really. “She was just trying to get under my skin.”

  


“Ah.” Khan turns to face the elevator door. It isn't until it opens on the ground floor that he speaks again. “I'm assuming she tried to get you to stop me, most likely by pointing out that the majority of the Reborn had no part in how my people were treated, or the abduction of the colonists.”

  


Jim feels the muscles of his back tense. “Are you assuming, or did you hear?”

  


“Assuming. People tend not to react favorably when made aware what I am capable of, and willing to do, to achieve results. Her response was predictable.” Khan steps out of the elevator carriage, looking at Jim sideways. “Remember what I told you – I'm not a monster. I can be. But I don't have to be.”

  


Jim also remembers the rest of that statement, and considering what Margaret Wallace just told him about the Augments, Khan's words strike unease rather than assurance. 

  


_But give me a reason, and I'll hound you to into the light of day._

  


  



	9. NINE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is almost all Jim. Also, plot. Also, no sex. 
> 
> Also, this is the absolutely last time I'll _ever_ write anything above 10k words in present tense. And what the heck is up with AO3's interface? I suddenly can't copy-paste into the Rich Text Editor anymore without losing all text breaks, italics, etc.; I have to convert each chapter into HTML first and then copy the source code into the HTML editor. Using Firefox and Open Office, if anyone knows why it's suddenly doing that, please enlighten me.

\- - -

  


**CHAPTER NINE**

  


\- - -

  


They reach the front entrance of the apartment building, walking past the same, snoozing receptionist they'd come across on their way in. Jim's internal debate about whether or not to say something about the low number of surviving Augments hasn't reached a satisfying conclusion; he can't _not_ keep it to himself for fear of sending Khan over the edge. At the same time, keeping it to himself feels like betrayal, as if Jim's not sharing knowledge Khan has a right to have. 

  


Knowledge Khan may _need_ , depending on where they go from here. 

  


Jim knows the City Council building. It's the former Starfleet Headquarters, renamed, sharing grounds with the Academy campus, near Horseshoe Bay, but closer to the Golden Gate Bridge. 

  


Getting in there won't be as easy as getting into the former hospital was; they can't rely on the same trick – setting up an explosion as diversion – to work in their favor twice. Oh, they _will_ get in somehow, no doubt about that, but they'll be going in there for _six_ Augments, not the 62 Khan is assuming. 

  


That change in number could change everything. 

  


“Listen,” Jim takes a hold of Khan's arm, pulling him to a stop just in front of the glass entrance door. He looks to make sure the receptionist, an elderly, fat man, is still asleep, “there's something -” and startles when meeting a terrified-looking stare from under lowered lashes. “Shit.”

  


Someone did hear Margaret's screams, after all. 

  


The entrance area turns into an inferno of gas and splinters. Instinctively, Jim shoves Khan away rather than pulling him closer, throwing himself around to shield his own face and front as the glass door explodes inward. There's not much of a shock wave, but Jim tumbles to the floor nevertheless, noting with detachment that something large and sharp has lodged itself into the back of his left shoulder, that something warm and wet runs from his left ear down across his cheek. 

  


He scrambles back to his feet, hoping to escape the billowing swaths of milky gas rising quickly toward the ceiling. He takes in a brief sequence of impressions – the receptionist heaving himself out of his chair, screaming, face and protruding belly bleeding copiously from dozens of cuts, Khan yanking a long sliver of glass out of his forearm – and is bowled over in the next instant by a body crashing into his. 

  


The impact on the floor forces the air from Jim's lungs. Someone is kneeling over him, tall and heavy, further compressing already compromised ribs. Jim inhales reflexively, swallows gas, and tastes treacly sweetness clinging to his tongue like a thin film. Almost instantly, he weakens. Not tear gas, then. Something more dangerous, causing Jim's vision to blur at the edges. 

  


Something cracks against the back of his head. Hard. Squirming, Jim manages to coax his hands up to protect his skull from a second hit, his awareness of his surroundings coalescing into a confusing, swirling mass. Then a flash, electric white, and darkness takes him. 

  


\- - -

  


He wakes to a sterile, bright room. His head feels as though it's stuffed with cotton, thoughts floating disconnectedly, an underlying sense of danger sharpening unwilling senses. He's spread-eagle on a hard surface, staring up into a single, invasive light, wrists and ankles pinned down. His back itches. His skull feels swollen. His fingers and toes are numb. 

  


A man leans over him, young, ginger hair falling over bright, green eyes. He's wearing a white outfit, with a name sewn, old-fashioned, into the hem of the breast pocket. Jim can't read the letters, they blur and dance even when he concentrates. 

  


The man pats him on the cheek, paternally, mockingly. Jim's insides curl and clench with indignity, but he thinks he manages to keep the emotion from showing on his face. The man says, “Let me put you at ease. We're not interested in you, Mr. Kirk. We're interested in your friend.”

  


Jim clamps his lips together. He'd die rather than give Khan away. 

  


A pinprick in the crook of his elbow. Ice travels in his veins. He feels instantly nauseated – do they mean to torture him? That thought births a tendril of not-so-irrational fear snaking past Jim's resolve: they will have to cut long and deep, break many bones, before his semi-augmented body registers the pain. 

  


The man leans over him again. “Let's start with the easy ones. What is your name?”

  


Jim's lips part against his will. “Jim.” He presses them together again. No torture. Worse. Fuck. Shit. 

  


“Your full name, please.”

  


“James Tiberius Kirk.”

  


The man smiles. His eyes crinkle at the corners. He has a boyish face, nose and cheeks freckled, a sharp, pointy chin. He can't be much older than twenty-five. “Well then, Mr. Kirk. Time to answer some questions.”

  


No matter how hard he tries to lie, Jim answers truthfully. The interrogation starts innocently enough: his birth date. The names of his parents. The name of the ship that exploded in orbit above Tandar. The number of barracks in the New Vulcan colony, before they expanded, before barracks turned into housing projects and a school was built and the place started looking like a home away from home. 

  


Now and then, more ice slides into Jim's veins, loosening his tongue when he thinks he's close to regaining control, overcoming his inhibitions. He knows what they're giving him, but he is helpless to stop it. He's strong, but he doesn't have the kind of raw physical strength Khan has; the restraints around his wrists and ankles are metal cushioned with a tight plastic weave, enough to keep him in place. When Jim's throat dries, turning his words into croaks, the man offers him water through a straw. 

  


The man asks about Khan.

  


Jim tells him everything. _Everything_. 

  


“Interesting,” his interrogator comments, when Jim winds to a stop. “You were as close to mortal enemies as can be, from what I've been told. Now you're fuck buddies. He must be quite the character, this Mr. Singh.” Green eyes sparkle mirthfully. “Or he's just a good lay. I've seen pictures.”

  


No question contained in those quietly nettling words; Jim keeps his silence. He does itch to correct the misconception, though. Khan is a good lay, true – at this point however, the sex has become superficial, a side-effect to the bonds tethering them together. 

  


The man taps a pen against a PaDD that has magically appeared in his hands. “Tell me, if we were to use you as bait, would that draw Mr. Singh out of whatever hole he's crawled into?”

  


_Khan got away_. Jim doesn't bother to keep the triumphant grin from his lips, but answers as the drug compels him to, truthful, “I don't know.”

  


The man frowns. Ice floods Jim's veins again. “I'll repeat my question: would Mr. Singh attempt to rescue you, if it were made known where you're held?”

  


“I don't know.” Elated, Jim chuckles at the ceiling. It's the truth. He _doesn't_ know. Khan would do what he thinks is best. He'd like to believe that Khan would attempt to save him, out of principle if nothing else – but Jim cannot be sure, even now. There is, however, one thing he is sure of. “But I do know that _if_ he came to rescue me, and found me in a state other than unharmed, he'd take you apart with his bare hands. He'd rip your heart out through your throat -”

  


“Thank you, that is enough.”

  


“- and he'd let me _watch_.”

  


Disapproval clear to read on his face, the man rises. “I think we're done.” He leans over Jim to add threateningly, “For now. Do hang around, Mr. Kirk. I'm certain we'll meet again soon.”

  


As soon as the door shuts behind Jim's interrogator, hidden valves flood the room with milky gas, sending Jim back into sleep.

  


\- - -

  


The next time Jim opens his eyes, the restraints are gone, and he's in a different room. The absence of a med-bot hovering over him, ready to slice and dice, comes as no small relief. His surroundings are as featureless as the ones before: a narrow cot molded out of the wall, no windows, a single light source sunk into the ceiling, far out of reach. A lidless toilet bowl in one corner, without any means of protecting his privacy. Next to the toilet is a small sink, with a single tap. 

  


Jim sits up slowly and discovers, to his annoyance, that his clothes are also gone. He's wearing a loose pair of gray pants and a wide shirt. He wriggles his toes against the floor, then laughs, startled; this is altogether too much like Khan's stay in the holding cell under New Vulcan's Council building. They just keep cropping up, these unexpected parallels. 

  


Curiously, Jim stretches an arm up and back, fingering his shoulder. A patch of skin there feels warmer than the rest, smoother, more sensitive. No scars that he can feel. Augment repair has already taken care of the injury he sustained at Margaret's apartment building. 

  


His stomach rumbles, demanding its tribute. No food anywhere in sight. Maybe they're going to starve him. 

  


The other effects of Augment repair linger on as well: he's sleepy, and a faint numbness remains in his limbs. Studying the smooth walls, the door that has no handle or lock he can see, the light above him he couldn't reach even if he jumped from the cot into the air, Jim curls up again, pillowing his head on his arm. 

  


Why waste the energy trying to get out of a place Jim's sure was built to keep people like him in? He won't prowl the narrow space like an animal, scratching at the walls in an effort he knows will be in vain. He won't howl or threaten or plead. He's not going to give his captors that satisfaction. 

  


If Khan can do that – sitting still and waiting, planning, always planning – so can he. 

  


An indeterminable amount of minutes or hours later, the cracking sound of a lock stirs Jim from slumber. A small rectangle opens at the bottom of the cell door, making room for a bowl. It's filled with bite-sized, soft-looking gray cubes. 

  


The bowl is given a small shove, the tips of black-gloved fingertips appearing briefly inside Jim's cell. The fingertips retreat. The open rectangle in the door closes again. 

  


Jim studies the bowl for long minutes. So they're not going to starve him, unless of course the food is poisoned or dosed with medication. Jim's stomach clenches insistently. He drags the bowl closer and picks up one of the gray cubes. It smells of nothing. He nibbles on an edge. It tastes of nothing, but that taste in itself gives away the nature of the dish: nutrition cubes. Hospital food, meant to fill the belly, not to appeal to taste or sight. 

  


He doesn't have much of a choice. Between starving to death and dying from poison, Jim knows what option he'll take. So he eats the cubes, and when he's done, slides the bowl back against the door for easy retrieval.

  


As soon as he sits back down on the cot, the rectangle in the door opens again and bowl is removed. 

  


So. They're watching him eat. That means video surveillance inside the cell. Jim's not sure what he'll do with that information other than acknowledge it; for now, he lies back down and waits to succumb to poison. When that doesn't happen, he goes back to sleep. 

  


\- - -

  


Meals are served three times a day, always gray nutrition cubes in shallow bowls Jim can neither shatter nor bend, no matter how much he surreptitiously tries. At first, it's impossible to tell if he's being served breakfast, lunch or dinner, until one of the fingertip-owners slips up and mutters, “Enjoy dinner, asshole,” while sliding the bowl through a slot at the bottom of Jim's cell door. 

  


Jim marks the passage of days by the meals he consumes. He doesn't have anything to occupy himself with, to pass the time between bowls. No one comes to ask him more questions, to shoot him up with more tongue-loosening drugs, to hand him PaDDs with information he's more than intimately familiar with. The light is never dimmed, never switched off. 

  


\- - -

  


Nineteen meals after the first bowl, six and a half days – by Jim's careful estimate - after waking up in this bleak little cell, the door opens and a woman walks in. She stops just inside, watching him carefully. Jim has taken to spending the time with simple physical exercises: push ups, sit ups, hand stands, stretches, shadow boxing. So when the woman walks in, he's upside down against the far wall, his weight resting on his elbows and forearms: yoga, prison-style. 

  


He folds his legs down, turns, and sits cross-legged. “Hello.”

  


She crinkles her nose. “You stink.”

  


Jim shrugs. He does. He has been washing at the sink, but there's only so much clear water can do when he has to put the same clothes back on afterward. 

  


The woman introduces herself as Jennifer Holloway. She's in her early thirties, unassumingly pretty, moderate make-up accentuating warm brown eyes, brown hair. She doesn't appear to be afraid that Jim might attack her any moment, but that probably has something to do with the three guards stationed just outside the door, phaser guns leveled blatantly in his direction. 

  


Holloway says, “We're not quite sure what to do with you.”

  


Jim smiles easily. “You could give me the colonists and the remaining Augments. And a ship. I'd get them off Earth and far away. You'd never see us again.”

  


Holloway smiles apologetically. “That offer isn't on the table, I'm afraid.”

  


“Then why are you here?”

  


She purses her lips. “I was diagnosed with a rare form of lymphatic cancer when I was twenty-three. Untreatable, at the time. I was in the middle of finishing my second semester at the academy. The doctors gave me a year. My parents were devastated. Three months later, Starfleet began distributing the vaccine.”

  


“Let me guess,” Jim looks her up and down, “no more cancer? All healthy?”

  


“Yes. The vaccine saved me, and countless others. I won't deny that there have been unfortunate casualties along the way.” Holloway eyes him curiously, as if he's a lab specimen she's studying. “I don't understand what you were trying to achieve. Why destroy all the good we've done here?”

  


And just like that, the last shreds of Jim's doubt about _why_ he returned to Earth fade. The parts of him that Margaret Wallace had managed to shake loose, settle. That's the problem with these Reborn: things that _should_ have provoked outrage, don't. Over the course of ten years, a ridiculously short time span if measured against the thousands of years it took mankind to achieve space travel capabilities, values that once laid the foundation for peace on Earth have been overturned. 

  


It's like the introduction of the vaccine ripped off the thin veneer of civilization and reintroduced an element of savagery. Considering _whose_ blood the vaccine was made from, Jim suspects the rest of the Alpha Quadrant can consider themselves lucky that a mere injection does not a true Augment make. 

  


Jim lets the full brunt of his disapproval, his _disappointment_ , show. “The 'good' you've done? A room full of Augments who deliberately starved themselves to death after they'd been used as lab rats, dozens more you basically slaughtered, thousands of colonists kidnapped from their new homes...you call that 'good'?” 

  


Not to mention the hundreds of thousands who'd _had_ to leave Earth so they wouldn't be forced to submit to an invasive medical procedure, or that being a non-Reborn now is equivalent to being a member of a sect, closely watched and vilified. Not to mention the broken laws, the ethics swept under the carpet for the sake of discovery, of medical progress. The human race might have become better on a purely physical level, but at a horrendous cost. 

  


If Jennifer Holloway, if _any_ of the Reborn in charge now, can't see what's wrong with that picture, then Jim is just wasting time talking to her. He isn't _that_ bored, nor that desperate for company. “Want some friendly advise?”

  


Poker-faced, Holloway nods. The three guards behind her shift uneasily, throwing each other short, worried glances. 

  


“You haven't managed to catch Khan. He's still out there, somewhere. Correct?” Holloway nods again. Jim smiles thinly. “Take a long holiday, very far away from Earth. I hear Orion is nice this time of year.”

  


\- - -

  


The next meal, breakfast if Jim's count is correct, is brought in rather than shoved through the door slot. The bowl is handed to Jim, rather than set on the floor. Jim considers the implications – the guard could be genuinely friendly, or he could be attempting to intimidate Jim with his staggering height of at least seven feet, or this could just be the prelude to something ugly, like a sneak beating, or an underhanded attempt to gain his trust – and decides he doesn't care. He sits down to eat. 

  


“You'll be transferred today,” the guards announces. 

  


Today's breakfast consists of an eclectic mix of fried cheese sticks, chunks of fresh bread, and grapes. Jim's taste buds are having an orgasm. “Ah.” He licks fat off his fingers. A transfer. That could mean anything. He figures that if they were planning to execute him, they'd have done so already. It's not like anyone's going to be asking any questions if he suddenly disappears for good. “And you're watching me eat because...?”

  


“Guess I'm curious,” the guard admits. His name tag reads Melkovitch. “Do you really believe that?”

  


“Believe what?”

  


“What you said to Miss Holloway. That this 'Khan' is going to come back here and...”

  


Jim's conversation with Holloway, overheard by three guards, must have made the gossip rounds. “And kick your asses?” Jim nibbles on a cheese stick, savoring the taste. “Yeah. I do believe that.”

  


Melkovitch snorts. “He's just one guy.”

  


“Augment,” Jim corrects, “he's an Augment.” He pops a grape into his mouth. Antagonizing anyone could seriously backfire on him, but with an opening like that, how can he refuse? “You know, Augments, the guys your shiny new regime experimented on for about ten years. Without their consent. I have it on good authority they weren't too happy about that. How many of your guard friends did they kill, at the hospital?” Melkovitch glowers, one meaty hand descending on the butt of the phaser gun at his hip. Jim smiles guilelessly. “Khan's their leader. And in case it somehow slipped past your notice or you've forgotten, he's also the guy who crashed the _Vengeance_ into San Francisco, all by himself.”

  


Clearly vexed, Melkovitch visibly restrains himself. “Transfer's in an hour,” he growls, slamming the cell door on his way out. 

  


\- - -

  


Four guards pile into the cell an hour later. Jim is pulled roughly to his feet. Melkovitch holds a phaser gun to Jim's head while another shackles Jim's wrists, pulling them harshly against the small of his back. Melkovitch then proceeds to check over the shackles, prodding with thick, hard fingers. 

  


Jim rolls his eyes. “Think you brought enough guys?” He receives a hard punch to the back of the head for his taunt, stumbling forward into another guard. That's how it is, then – they'll beat him up now, while he can hardly defend himself without the use of his hands, and then claim he resisted his escort. 

  


But the guard he stumbled into, a weathered-looking Latino, only helps Jim regain his balance. “That's enough now, Mel.” The two other guards take Jim in their middle. Melkovitch takes the front, grumbling under his breath. The Latino – Miraz, according to his name tag – brings up the rear. He prods Jim between the shoulder blades. “Walk. You don't give us any trouble, we won't give you any. Understand?”

  


Jim nods. He isn't interested in trouble, for now. Not that he's going to go out of his way to be polite to people, especially if they get handsy, but he's keen to learn more about his surroundings. Docility doesn't mean he's not looking for a way out, even now. 

  


Outside Jim's cell door, the sterile white walls and floor give way to far more utilitarian gray steel and a grated walkway overlooking an empty hall. The walkway goes all the way around, ending at a metal stair. Looking up, Jim sees there are four more walkways above him, each one connected to the one below with a set of stairs. It's a prison tract, clearly, according to the large number of numbered doors. The absence of windows, of any natural light, indicates they're either underground, or that someone has gone to great lengths to ensure the people locked away here don't have the slightest chance of escape. 

  


“Take a good, long look, asshole,” Melkovitch sneers when they reach the stairs. “You'll never see another place again.”

  


“Melkovitch,” Miraz warns sharply, “shut up and move.”

  


At the bottom of the stairs, two more people join them. Jim recognizes the ginger-haired man in charge of his interrogation and finally learns his name: Doctor Bremen. Doctor Bremen doesn't look very happy, pouting like a child about to descend into a tantrum. Next to him, Jennifer Holloway stands with her arms crossed over her chest, flinty-eyed. She greets Jim with a cordial nod, then stalks across the hall to an open turbo-lift. 

  


Doctor Bremen favors Jim with a contemptuous, heated glare. “If I were in charge, you'd have been dissected by now.”

  


For the sake of what? It's not like Jim's looking any different on the inside than any other Reborn out there. In fact, he's probably even less interesting than a Reborn, having been injected with McCoy's experimental serum instead of the more sophisticated version that was distributed later. Jim looks from Bremen to Holloway and back, allowing himself a small smile. “Good thing you aren't in charge, then.”

  


“This way, gentlemen,” Holloway says frostily. 

  


As soon as they're inside the turbo-lift, Jim knows just how far underground they are. The panel next to the door shows the 'lift lingering on the sixth sub-level of a total of fifteen. Reading a very familiar name next to the top floor, Jim also knows where they are: City Council, formerly known as Starfleet Headquarters. 

  


Holloway presses the button for the fifteenth sub-level. 

  


Doctor Bremen, who notices Jim looking, inquires silkily, “Brings back memories, reading that?” He flicks a fingernail against the metal plaque that reads 'Daystrom Conference Room'. “I would have loved to be there, when Mr. Singh crashed _that_ little party.”

  


There's no way any sane person would have wanted to be there, the day Khan shot up the conference room and killed a large number of Starfleet captains and their first officers. Unless, of course, Bremen would have loved to see Starfleet's elite being gunned down. “You'd be dead now.”

  


Bremen sniffs. “It'd have been worth it.”

  


Jim's memories of that day in the conference room have dimmed over the years, the clearest impression he retains that of Christopher Pike's face, but Jim's certain that none of the captains and first officers that attended the emergency meeting had been called Bremen. Even if Doctor Bremen lost a family member that day, it makes no sense for him to root for _Khan_. “Why the rabid hate for Starfleet?”

  


“Why? Because they were a bunch of holier-than-thou old farts with delusions of grandeur,” Bremen spits. “Starfleet hampered us. Everything Starfleet has ever done was to restrainmankind, rather than expand it.” He pokes a finger at Jim's chest. “You were a Starfleet captain yourself! Don't tell me you never came across a nice planet and thought, hm, wouldn't it be nice if that belonged to Earth?”

  


“No,” Jim says, honestly baffled, “I never thought that.”

  


Bremen goes on as though he hasn't even heard. “And then the Klingons, and the Romulans. We could have been done with those nuisances fifty years ago, if Starfleet Command hadn't insisted on _diplomatic relations_. Bah! The only diplomacy these savages understand is -”

  


Deliberately, Jim tunes him out. He has to. One more disjointed half-truth out of that imbecile's mouth, and Jim's either going to laugh himself sick, or die trying to rip Bremen's throat out with his teeth. Starfleet fucked up royally with the Augments, with Section 31, with the distribution of the vaccine, but the _idea_ behind Starfleet had never been to restrain or hamper the human race. If even half of what came out of Bremen's mouth just now is what they're teaching kids in school these days, then it's no wonder everything's gone to hell in a hand basket, fast. 

  


And expansion? Bremen has _got_ to be kidding. Ten years of war with the Klingons, and the best the Reborn have to show for it now is a fragile stalemate dependent on a bunch of empty Dreadnoughts in space, more show than actual firepower. Every single world the Klingons conquered has either been completely annihilated or remains firmly in Klingon hands – and this _kid_ dreams about making the Reborn Empire grow?

  


_Delusions of grandeur, my ass_. Exasperated, Jim glares at Bremen, whose mouth is still flapping. Even the guards are looking at him askance, as if they're embarrassed to be in the same space with the young man. It's Holloway who eventually says, “Doctor Bremen, please do be quiet.”

  


Melkovitch mutters, “Don't know about you guys, but I think the good doctor has a point -”

  


“Shut up!” Miraz snarls. 

  


By the time the 'lift door finally opens, the atmosphere inside has reached the boiling point. Doctor Bremen stalks off in the opposite direction Jim, the guards and Jennifer Holloway go, lab coat flaring behind him dramatically. Miraz orders Melkovitch to stay behind at the 'lift, to which the 7-foot-giant responds with a put-upon sigh. 

  


“Be seeing you,” Melkovitch calls after Jim, words heavily laced with implied threats. 

  


The fifteenth sub-level is dramatically different from the sixth. Jim and his entourage cross a crescent-shaped area with walls made of thick, milky glass. Holloway stops at a double-winged, heavy door, which promptly extends a mobile retina scanner to authenticate her identity. The door opens with a hiss of pressurized air. “Like I said,” she explains, “we aren't quite sure what to do with you.”

  


Behind the door is an ominous-looking corridor. Jim shifts from foot to foot. “'We'?”

  


“The Council. Your case was put to a vote. As you may have guessed by now, Doctor Bremen voted to have you put down. He's...exceedingly wary of anyone who ever had any ties to Starfleet, no matter in what capacity.” Holloway steps aside to make room for the guards to push Jim through the open doorway. “I pleaded in your favor. I believe in second chances. Of course you'll be formally sentenced for the deaths you've caused, but first I'd like to show you that we aren't as bad as you seem to think.” She smiles. “I do believe you'd make a valuable and resourceful member of Reborn society.”

  


The shackles around Jim's wrists are loosened and removed. He ponders the words, their genteel, _wrong_ inflection – Holloway is worse than Doctor Bremen, in her own way. She genuinely believes that there's nothing wrong with the society she'd like to 'integrate' Jim into. As if he's a dog, treated badly by a previous master, now needing to be gentled and tamed. 

  


Jim keeps those thoughts to himself. Caution takes precedence over wanting to take Holloway by the shoulders and shake some sense into her, or better still, wrapping his hands around her neck to strangle. The guards are moving back through the doorway, leaving him alone in the corridor. 

  


“You'll come around,” Holloway says, still smiling. “They always do.”

  


The door slides shut. Braced for worst-case scenarios – a sudden attack by rabid guards, rabid dogs, rabid scientists; trap doors opening under his bare feet, med-bots popping out of hidden wall panels, whirling sharp instruments at him – Jim cautiously explores. The corridor makes a sharp bend, opening into a much larger space made oppressive by the low ceiling. 

  


The people gathered in that open space, silent and tense, eye the new arrival with suspicion. Jim for his part, unsure what or who he's looking at, notes the gray, uniform clothing and the bare feet of the men and women watching him. Here and there, recognition sparks: faces he thinks he might have seen before, somewhere. 

  


And then a face he definitely knows, even though it's now marred by a long, thick scar jotted down from brow to cheek. “Scotty.” 

  


The former Chief Engineer of the _Enterprise_ gapes as though he's seeing a ghost. “Jim.” Trance-like, Montgomery Scott moves forward. “Oh, my God.” Two faster steps, and he's throwing his arms around Jim, pulling him into a tight embrace. “Laddie, I thought I'd never see you again!”

  


So yes, an ambush, although not of the kind Jim expected. Numbly, he wraps his arms around Scotty in return, soaring joy warring with fierce disbelief. It's not a dream: Scotty's warmth and strength and hushed, rapid questions are real, as are the still-wary expressions of the people watching their reunion. Scotty pushes him away, holding him at arm's length, then pulls him in again, laughing and babbling at the same time. 

  


The colonists. Jim's friends. 

  


_Some_ of the colonists. _One_ of Jim's friends. 

  


_I found them_. 

  


\- - -

  


And as seems to be routine in Jim's life, all good things come with a drawback. _One_ means one: Sulu is gone. Scotty doesn't know if the _Enterprise's_ pilot died on New Vulcan, or if he died here, on the sixteenth sub-level of the City Council, which both Scotty and Jim refer to as 'headquarters' still. Or if Sulu survived and took the other option, before Scotty managed to find him in all the chaos and confusion. 

  


“This place is a maze,” Scotty explains, leading Jim from the entrance area deeper into the sprawling complex. “We got everything: sanitary areas, sleeping quarters, kitchens, even a darn play room for the kids...”

  


“But no freedom.”

  


“No. No freedom.” 

  


_Some_ means some. 

  


When the colonists were first brought here, beamed directly from the Dreadnoughts down to Earth, there were far too many of them. Over six thousand people just from New Vulcan, thousands more from Tyree, Arakon, Tandar, Mizar II and dozens of other planets, all perched together, imprisoned – a recipe for disaster. There wasn't enough room. 

  


“You could hardly find a place to sleep, even on the floor. During the first days you couldn't even find a place to stand.” Speaking in subdued tones, Scotty stops between rooms. “There were riots and eventually, casualties. You know how it is. Put fear and oppression into the same place and it'll all end in tears.” He takes a shuddering breath, gaze distant with memories. “The Reborn release anyone who volunteers for vaccination and 'reintegration'. They don't force it. All you have to do is walk up to that door back there and say you want to, and they'll let you out.”

  


A despicable strategy, but one that works. Jim can see it, can even – in a small, small corner of his mind, reserved for ruthless, cold planning and psychological warfare – appreciate the ingenuity of it. 

  


It works on the parents first, trying to save their children. If Jim had a son or a daughter, he'd do anything to protect them, too. 

  


Then come the weary ones, the injured, the people who figure that giving in is easier and more rewarding than staying here, under these low ceilings, in the smallish, depressive rooms that lack color, individuality, a future. 

  


Last come the strongest, the strong-willed, the stubborn: men and women who would rather die than give in, but on whom the psychological pressure works nevertheless as they have to watch family members, friends, acquaintances give in. 

  


Scotty stops in a one-bed room somewhere in the middle of the complex. The next room over, on the same short hallway, is a small kitchen, with few but working appliances, synthesizers and replicators programmed to produce a very narrow range of foods and items. “People were going crazy. There are no _doors_ , except the one that leads to vaccination. You literally had not one ounce of privacy, let alone space to think, or to grieve.” He sighs and drags a hand through his hair. “We still don't have that.”

  


Jim, balanced on the tightrope between joy and despair, sits on the foot end of Scotty's bed. “How many are left?”

  


“One hundred. Maybe. We lose one, sometimes two a day.” Scotty grimaces. “We tried daily headcounts, but it's no use. The complex is too large to keep track of everyone, and we figured that if people don't want to be counted, we're not going to force them. What you walked into, when you came in, was basically the daily meeting. Of the hard core, so to speak.” 

  


Another parallel between Jim and Khan, this: losing people. Loved ones. Khan's family reduced to a paltry six, frozen and hidden somewhere. By Scotty's accounting, Jim has lost thousands – not his family, but still. They could argue, Khan and he, who has more of a right to grieve, to exact revenge, but that would be a horrible, petty thing to do. 

  


Now they've even lost each other, forcefully separated, Jim stuck here in what amounts to hell, Khan someplace else, injured perhaps, hunted. Maybe even dead, and Holloway hasn't bothered to tell him, fearing to jeopardize his 'reintegration'. 

  


Jim flops back on the bed and pushes the heels of his hands against his eye sockets, battling sudden nausea as his stomach roils with a heady froth of guilt, anger and shame. If Khan and he hadn't spent so much time on Orion, there would be more colonists now. If the colonies had been better protected, the people might never have been taken in the first place. 

  


If the remaining Federation members hadn't turned a blind eye ten years ago – _if_ the Federation indeed still exists - if only McCoy had let him stay dead \- 

  


If. If. _If_. Again. 

  


“Laddie,” Scotty asks, “how in the blazes did you end up here?”

  


No reason to lie, is there? “With Khan. I released Khan.”

  


“You...what? That madman -”

  


Jim glares up between his fingers, irrationally inflamed. “He's _my_ madman. Mine. Don't call him that.” The silence that follows his abrupt outburst could not be more awkward. “Sorry. I'm sorry.”

  


Scotty's perplexed stare deserves a more in-depth account of the shenanigans Jim's been getting into lately. He needs to explain how rage and vengeance brought him to Earth, with said madman, and why shame is now the predominant motivator behind Jim's innards tying themselves into ice-hot knots. 

  


Because ultimately, Jim has failed. What has _he_ got to show for all the expenses and trouble he went to, to get here? Thousands of colonists voluntarily submitting themselves to Reborn society, a lover – partner, significant other, _one_ of those interchangeable terms that come and go as trends dictate; Jim settles on 'lover' – not at his side, and himself captured. 

  


If only - 

  


Scotty's warm palm on Jim's forehead interrupts the tight spiral of guilt and black thoughts. “Jim.” The Scotsman settles gingerly on the bed, wary, weary, fondly exasperated. “I'd build you another _Bug_ to drag you out of that funk I can _see_ is clogging your drains, but I'm a bit short on materials at the moment.”

  


Some of the ice in Jim's guts melts away. _Keep it together_ , he berates himself. So far he's always managed to get himself and his crew out of hairy situations – except when luck completely failed; Tandar comes to mind – and while Scotty definitely deserves an explanation for Jim's presence, he doesn't deserve Jim's self-inflicted descent into black thoughts. Not here, not now. Not when there's still a chance they'll make it out of this place, somehow. 

  


“Thanks, Scotty,” Jim says, and means it. 

  


“You're welcome.” Scotty mock-frowns. “Where is that wee thing, anyway? I hope you haven't crashed her.”

  


Jim rolls his eyes. “No, of course not! We – you know what, let me start at the beginning.”

  


\- - -

  


Time passes weirdly in this complex, this confusing maze of intersecting hallways, small rooms and communal areas. With no guards to mark the time by bringing meals three times a day, Jim finds it hard to keep track of the hours; he does, however, take great pleasure in sleeping with the lights off in the room next to Scotty's. 

  


He showers, taking the time to wash the sweaty clothes he's wearing, using the universal, weak soap dispersed from tiny nozzles. Without any means to dry the clothes, he's forced to put them back on wet. Once he's found his way back to the area he now shares with Scotty and two other colonists, he'll have to try to coax the replicator in the kitchen into producing a fresh set of clothes for him. 

  


He's just done pulling his sodden shirt back on when three men and a woman file into the bathroom. 

  


“I know you,” the woman spits angrily. She looks vaguely familiar: a colonist from New Vulcan, perhaps. “You're James Kirk. You're the one that started this all!” The three men she brought, sizing him up, spread out. One blocks the only entrance. The other two circle to Jim's left and right, leaving no doubt about their intentions. “What are you doing here? Spying for them?”

  


Three against one – four, counting the woman – aren't good odds. Though instinctively Jim wants to do what he's done for years, keeping a low profile and pretending the whispers and accusing glares don't get to him, he squares his shoulders and forces his head high. “I'm not a Reborn, and I don't spy for them, either. I'm a prisoner here, same as you. And even if I were a spy, what could I possibly tell them that they can't see on the security cameras?”

  


The woman's stare is full of hatred, fear and doubt. She's about Jim's age, heavyset, broad in the shoulders and hips. She has no hair worth speaking of, only a fuzzy, light brown stubble. Her hands and forearms are littered with dozens of scars, evidence of a life lived on the less gentle side. Suddenly, Jim remembers – not her name, but seeing her work alongside Scotty at the New Vulcan colony's port, stripping a derelict space shuttle for spare parts. A mechanic, engineer, something along those lines. She'd never outright attacked Jim, verbally or otherwise, only made herself scarce when Jim returned from his trips, making her displeasure of his presence known that way.

  


Today, it seems, she's not going to be satisfied with any of her previous measures of passive-aggressively letting Jim know she neither trusts nor likes him. And she brought friends. 

  


She grinds her jaw. “ _Why_ are you here?”

  


“I told you, I'm a prisoner. Believe it or not, but I returned to Earth hoping to rescue you guys,” Jim ignores the disbelieving snort the man nearest to him makes, “and I ended up caught. Holloway put me in here with you. That's all.”

  


Like fine, invisible lines strung in the air, the tension rackets up another notch. Any moment now, the scales will tip in favor of violence. Jim understands, he does – now more than ever he understands how easy it is to lump everyone with mutagenic blood, vaccination or otherwise, into the same big category, to lay blame at his feet because it _did_ start with him – but he isn't going to back down and cower.

  


Not today. Not ever again. If the remaining colonists want to vent steam, he'll let them – and he's going to give back as good as he gets. 

  


Unexpectedly, the frozen tableau of antagonism is interrupted by a shout. “Oi, you lot!” Scotty appears behind the man at the door. “What do you think you're doing here?” After some initial resistance, the man budges, letting Scotty in. “Leave him alone.”

  


“It's got nothing to do with you,” the woman says, glaring at Scotty. Clearly, she's not happy with the interruption. “Stay out of this.”

  


“It's got everything to do with me.” Resolutely, Scotty stands at Jim's side. He's radiating cold fury. “He's my friend. You want to pick a fight, Sarah, you'll have to pick one with me, too.” He sticks his chin out. “So, what's it going to be?”

  


A cacophonous rumble cuts through Sarah's answer, rooting everyone to the spot. Startled, Jim looks around, then down. The floor is still wet from his earlier shower and washing, and the warm, nubby tiles vibrate gently under the soles of Jim's feet. Concentric circles ripple the surface of the shallow half-inch of water stagnating in the shower basin.

  


The rumble and vibrations fade. The lights flicker twice in quick succession, as if power to the complex is compromised. Somewhere above them, beyond the low ceiling, something cracks and groans, like an old floorboard yielding under someone's foot. 

  


The lights flicker a third time. 

  


“Earthquake?” The man at the door, a tall, thin Asian, nervously eyes the ceiling. 

  


Jim shares the man's unease. The complex is on the sixteenth sub-level of the old Starfleet Headquarters. That's a million tons of steel, glass and wiring above their heads, all of which could potentially come down _on_ their heads, if the structural integrity of the building is endangered by tectonic shifts – and they're stuck down here without a quick way out. 

  


Sarah seems to have forgotten all about Jim. She, too, stares at the ceiling. “There hasn't been an earthquake in the San Francisco area in over 220 years. And a building this size and importance would have stabilizers. We shouldn't have felt that.” 

  


The man to Jim's and Scotty's right moves away from under the light fixture directly above him. “And you know that how?”

  


“I'm a terra-former,” Sarah's answers, matter-of-fact. “We're trained in that kind of stuff.”

  


Raised voices from further inside the complex indicate everyone has felt the vibrations and heard the rumbling. For a second Jim can't help thinking it's something the Reborn did on purpose, to speed up the process of getting the remaining colonists to 'voluntarily' apply for vaccination just to get out of this place. But that's paranoia and nerves talking, nothing more. 

  


When no further signs of imminent doom come, everyone relaxes. Marginally. The brief interlude of companionable staring at the ceiling hasn't changed the initial reason for their presence in the bathroom; Sarah focuses back on Jim and the three men follow suit. 

  


“Oh, for god's sake,” Scotty huffs, “isn't it bad enough we're trapped down here? Sarah, look –“

  


“Forget it.” Sarah's gaze conveys anger still, but also conflict. 

  


Jim doesn't look away. He neither wants nor needs her approval, grudging or not, but he'll have her respect. At the very least, he'll have some sort of indication from her that she isn't going to suddenly turn up at the side of his bed while he's sleeping, attempting to smother him with a pillow. 

  


She, or any of her pals. 

  


“I'm not a spy. And I helped the New Vulcan colony for years, ferrying goods all over the Alpha Quadrant. You know that. You _saw_ me.” Jim thinks he can see something in Sarah's stance relaxing. “So -”

  


The ground _shakes_ under their feet. This time the accompanying sound isn't a rumble but an ear-splitting _crack_ that indicates structural damage. Jim nearly loses his balance. Scotty does, going down with a flail of arms and a squawk of alarm. Above their heads, a long, zigzagging tear appears in the ceiling, raining dust and compound mortar. 

  


The lights flicker, go out, stay out. In the corridor outside the bathroom, a shower of sparks illuminates, briefly, five faces in various expressions of horror and fear. Jim feels the strain of muscles in his own face, hears his own, sharp bark of alarm. 

  


Three rapid shakes, fast, with only seconds between. _Massive_ shakes. The entire bathroom trembles, disintegrates, like a fragile toy box in the hand of an angry giant. A shriek of metal precedes a sudden gush of ice-cold water drenching Jim – the water lines, breaking inside the walls.

  


Which means the _walls_ are breaking as well. 

  


Blindly, Jim drops to his knees, feels around for Scotty. Someone – Sarah or one of the men – is howling with pain. Then a great tearing noise - 

  


“That's not an earthquake!” Scotty shouts. “That's -”

  


Jim grasps gold light and birdsong. 

  


\- - -

  


He materializes somewhere else, surrounded by cavernous darkness and pale, eerie shafts of light. The very hard, very smooth floor under his knees is polished to perfection, rendering Jim's reflection a blurred smudge of gray-peach color. As the twitter of birdsong fades and the last swirls of gold light dissipate, Jim's hand makes contact with what he'd been reaching for: Scotty's arm. 

  


Scotty stares back at him, eyes wide. They're both soaked – Jim from his shower and washing and the burst water lines, Scotty from his tumble to the ground – and dripping and Jim looks up just in time to see Sarah pull herself up from the floor, looking pole-axed.

  


She's not the only one. Dozens of men and women in gray prison clothes cautiously uncoil from self-protective positions, amazement, fear and incomprehension writ on their faces. Nobody speaks. One doesn't rise at all: ten feet away from Jim lies a ruined body, head and chest compressed to sickening flatness, in a spreading pool of blood. 

  


Dull thunder rolls through the half-dark, sinister space, staccato-fast. It sounds mechanical, powerful, _known_. And there, stacked orderly in a little pyramid in an alcove not far off, six white coffins. 

  


“Jim,” Scotty whispers hoarsely, “Jim, I'm crazy, this is – we're on a fucking _Dreadnought_.”

  


Jim rises. Yes. Yes, they are. He recognized the bridge design behind and around Ann, of course he'll recognize the long, dark hangar. That sleek, solemn design, all black metal, pale light, slick surfaces. Slick enough for two men, correction, one man and an Augment, to use the floor as a landing pad, nothing between their skin and metal but the flimsy material of a space suit. 

  


Slick enough to slice through San Francisco's skyscrapers like a knife through butter. Oh, yes. Jim recognizes his surroundings. 

  


One of the colonists staggers closer. “We're _where_?” As if on cue, other voices join in, confused, frightened, cries of anguish and questions – 'What's happening?', 'Where are we?' - over the continuing din of thunder and the telltale, bombastic bursts of explosions further away. 

  


“I have to,” Jim's already turning. The cold metal floor of the Dreadnought's hangar under his bare feet vibrates like the bathroom floor did, but rhythmic, methodical. Phaser fire. Interspersed with louder, _bigger_ tremors – cannons? Torpedoes?

  


Jim races for the exit of the hangar. The colonists are safe enough, as safe as they can be, in the belly of the ship. Safer than they were deep underground, certainly. His feet find the way of their own accord, without any input from his brain, and Jim slams into the nearest turbo-lift. 

  


Scotty slams into Jim's back. “You're not going alone.” He's out of breath and wild-eyed, but determined. “It's Khan?”

  


“Gotta be.” The only other option would be Spock, but Spock's on New Vulcan with Uhura and T'sha, safe and far away from the Reborn Empire, and Spock wouldn't know where to look for Jim. Jim hesitates over the lift controls. “I don't know how he'll react. To you.” 

  


To any of this. Six coffin-like cryo-tubes – Khan _knows_ now. There's no telling what state of mind he'll be in. 

  


Scotty nods grimly. “Let's find out.”

  


The 'lift spits them out on the back of the bridge. The first thing that greets them is a corpse, slumped just in front of the lift doors. The head is a messy, crushed pulp, the body folded, literally, in half. Folded _the wrong way_. “Oh, Jesus,” Scotty moans, covering his mouth and nose with his shirt sleeve. 

  


Definitely Khan's work. 

  


Jim climbs over the corpse, trying not to pay too much attention to the cold blood squishing between his bare toes. There are more corpses, all lying crushed and broken in the vicinity of the lift – some kind of skeleton crew, he assumes, and Khan hadn't been finicky in how he disposed of them. 

  


Scotty grabs Jim's arm and points. 

  


Beyond the Dreadnought's bridge screen, fire rages. At first Jim doesn't understand what he's looking at. Tall buildings on fire, skyscrapers sagging like card houses. Black-orange clouds. A field of lights and vague shapes swallowed by explosions spread out beyond, an inferno of destruction. 

  


The Dreadnought isn't in space. 

  


Numbly, Jim staggers forward, around support beams and past unmanned consoles. San Francisco burns, stark against the night sky. The Golden Gate Bridge is a frayed and flimsy ruin over flaming waves and glowing chunks of concrete and metal, toy-like in the upper corner of the screen. Directly below them, a vast, smoking crater, licked at by fire and sparks. A _hole_ in the ground, where Starfleet Headquarters used to be. 

  


Jim turns away from the carnage, facing the solitary figure in the Dreadnought's command seat and meeting a composed gaze out of sea-foam pale eyes. Jim's initial reaction – running over and throwing his arms around Khan – is held at bay by instinct: if Khan appeared non-human before, now he looks downright diabolical. He sits like he's part of the Dreadnought, rigid and upright, half in the shadows of the bridge where the glow of fire can't reach. 

  


Scotty curses quietly. Jim looks over his shoulder just in time to see a triple-comet of torpedoes trailblazing white striking a complex building just on the edge of the bridge screen; there goes the Academy, and _how_ it goes; columns of fire lick at the sky and the seashell-shaped roof cracks open like an egg. 

  


“Gentlemen,” Khan says, “take a seat.”

  


Scotty doesn't move. He stares at Khan. “What...what are you _doing_...?” 

  


Jim shoves Scotty at the nearest, empty seat. “He shot us out of headquarters.” Literally. Now that Jim's starting to get over his confusion, he's catching up. “Sit down, Scotty. _Sit_.” He pushes the Scotsman down himself, feeling for the manual release of the seat belts. “You were right. That wasn't an earthquake.”

  


Scotty's mouth opens and closes. 

  


_Shock_ , Jim diagnoses. He's not sure he's still not in shock himself. He makes sure Scotty's buckled in securely, then proceeds to stand in front of the command seat. Khan looks at him, through him. 

  


There are a million things Jim wants to do, starting with asking _how, when_ , but it'll have to wait. Everything can wait. They're _free_ – him, Scotty, the remaining colonists, the six remaining Augments, _oh shit_ , and San Francisco is burning.

  


He straddles Khan's thighs, bending over him. Takes Khan's pale face between his palms and kisses him. Does a brief check – two arms, two legs, no great, bleeding holes anywhere – and kisses him again, until he gets a slow, hesitant response. Still _his_ , then. Still his, and Khan stole a Dreadnought and shot Starfleet Headquarters to pieces until the internal shielding failed so he could beam Jim and the colonists and six cryo-tubes out, _fuck,_ _how_ , no, no time for that now. 

  


“Sit,” Khan murmurs against Jim's lips, “we're not safe yet.” 

  


“What's the plan?”

  


“Avoiding the Klingons would be good.”

  


That makes no sense. “The Klingons?”

  


Khan smiles, gently and razor-sharp at the same time. He wraps an arm around Jim's waist and pulls him down, until Jim has no choice but to give in and sit on his lap. It's an awkward fit, and Scotty splutters something about ' _now, really?_ '. “Look,” Khan says, manipulating the small control panel in the seat's armrest. “I brought...friends.”

  


The Dreadnought's bridge screen switches from a view of San Francisco in ruins to a three-dimensional grid with Earth at its center, denominated T-001. Hundreds of little dots surround T-001, each flagged with a tiny 'D' and a number. Jim knows what he's looking at: Earth and its protective barrier of Dreadnoughts in orbit. 

  


Hundreds of little dots flagged '?', no number, are breaking up the protective barrier. In fact, the protective barrier is breaking up on its own, 'D'-dots changing position hurriedly, setting up formations. Some of them vanish completely, after coming into contact with a '?'. 

  


Jim watches, rapt. “What did you _do_?”

  


\- - -

  


Khan ended up stealing the _USS Skyward_. Jim will, at length and with great pleasure, contemplate _that_ ironic twist of fate, later, and hope that Admiral fucking Kerensky turns over in her grave. For now, after disentangling himself, he takes over piloting. The Klingons will be busy up there for a while, decimating what they now know to be mostly unmanned Dreadnoughts. When they're done, they'll descend on the planet. 

  


The _Skyward_ and her passengers need to be gone, before that happens. San Francisco's air defense teams are one thing; the _Skyward's_ automated crossfire easily picks off one shuttle after the other, her superior shielding absorbing the phaser blasts and the few torpedoes. 

  


An armada of Klingon War Birds and cruisers are a different thing altogether. 

  


“Mad, both of you,” Scotty mutters. “ _Insane_. Utterly, completely, _irretrievably_ insane!” He's been muttering under his breath for the last five minutes, between pulling up various screens and running half a million diagnostics and shooting disbelieving glares in the direction of the command seat. “Do you have _any_ idea what this'll do to the Federation? What it'll do to _Earth_?”

  


“The Federation hasn't given one crap about Earth in ten years. I doubt they'll come to Earth's aid now.” Jim slides into the pilot seat. He doesn't know how Khan let the Klingons know that Earth's defense, the barricade of Dreadnoughts, is basically a smokescreen, but he does know that the hundreds of dots up there represent the bulk of the Klingon forces and _no one_ is going to get between them and their target. “Scotty, Earth is lost. It was lost the moment Starfleet distributed the vaccine. _We_ started the war with the Klingons. Remember?”

  


“I don't bloody care who started it!” Scotty slams a fist against his console. “There are people down there who aren't Reborn! They'll be annihilated!”

  


Jim can't pretend he's not thinking about that, even as he prepares the _Skyward_ for the hyper-jump. He can't pretend his conscience isn't raging at the fact that thousands, if not millions of innocent people will die, if the Reborn lose the battle in space. The Klingons might well destroy Earth completely, leaving the mere handful of colonists secure in the _Skyward's_ hangar the only survivors of a catastrophe that started ten years ago. 

  


Sure, there might be others – tiny colonies that escaped everyone's notice, far away enough to avoid coming to the attention of the Reborn. Pre-Reborn colonies, even. 

  


The bulk of humankind is on Earth, however. And Earth's stalemate with the Klingons is definitely over.

  


“Pick a side, Mr. Scott.” Khan, hands folded under his chin, eyes glued to the bridge screen that still shows parts of a burning city while Jim rotates the _Skyward_ 180 degrees, sounds supremely unconcerned by the possibility of Earth's demise. And of course he would be – it's what he brought the Klingons here for. “If I'd managed to get my crew,” he glances at Scotty, ice in his eyes, “all _six_ of them, and the colonists out by other means, what do you think would have happened?”

  


Surreptitiously, Jim calls up a tiny screen on his console, checking on the colonists and the cryo-tubes in the hangar. The poor people down there must be going mad, not knowing what's happening. Mad enough to...? Jim's not going to leave it to chance, and commands the _Skyward's_ computer to beam the cryo-tubes somewhere else... there: med-bay. 

  


“This isn't right. This _can't_ be the answer.” Scotty sounds as if he's on the verge of tears. “Jim, say something!”

  


_Pick a side._ Jim's done that, a while ago. It doesn't matter how much his conscience rages; innocent people will die. Innocent people _have_ died all along, ever since this started, on both sides. The Reborn would never leave the colonists alone, even if Khan had only laid destruction to San Francisco without bringing the Klingons along. 

  


Jim says, “Warping in five, four, three -”

  


  



	10. TEN & Epilogue

\- - -

  


**CHAPTER TEN**

  


\- - -

  


_**( Tanitha James,** _ **The Memory of War** **_, publication date 2477 )_ **

_'Wars don't ever simply 'end'._

  


_One side will declare themselves winner; weapons will be laid down, peace treaties will be negotiated, borders will be shifted and reparations will be paid. Politicians, all too good at fanning the flames, will dance on the ashes of nations burned to the ground._

  


_Politicians don't win wars. The people do._

  


_And the people remember._

  


_Wars don't end. The battlefield becomes transient, taking up residence in memory, folklore and heritage. War is handed down from one generation to the next, a precious heirloom all too often tenderly cared for. The end of a war is never the end of the conflict. A cease fire does not stop prejudice on either side._

  


_To 'win' a war, complete annihilation is the only answer. Leave no stone unturned. Leave none alive: no children to carry the grudge, no elders to tell the tale. To win, erase your enemy. Erase their memories, and their allies, and their friends. As long as_ one _survives to remember, the war survives._

  


_Make no mistake: no wars are ever_ won _. They are only prorogued.'_

  


\- - -

  


The _Skyward's_ powerful engines maneuver the majestic ship straight upward. Gaining altitude swiftly, she breaks through clouds, rises higher. Below, San Francisco: dim under the cover of clouds, awash in orange, burning. Above, space: a chess game of powers, a symphony of destruction played out against uncaring infinity. Klingon War Birds and cruisers engage in a game of catch-me with arthropod Dreadnoughts; between them, they create a chaotic pattern of laser shots, torpedoes and silent explosions. 

  


The spectacle arrests Jim's attention for a moment. Ten years ago, he would have wanted to join. With a sleek, fast ship at his command, he would have been in the middle of the fray, prepared and eager to fight. To protect Earth and Starfleet, and because it would have been the right thing to do. 

  


But he's seen it all before, and the novelty wears off quickly. This isn't his war, not anymore. These aren't his people anymore, and young, eager James Tiberius Kirk _died_ ten years ago. The Jim Kirk of today has no qualms about turning his back. 

  


The _Skyward_ enters orbit smoothly. Small warning screens inform Jim they've come in range of the hundreds, thousands of phaser shots flying, the torpedoes seeking goals. The _Skyward's_ shields absorb two hits that shake the ship and make the smooth metal floor under the soles of Jim's bare feet vibrate, but she was built to last, this ship, to fly fast and to win wars, and she can take the hits. 

  


“- two, one. Warp.”

  


The warp channel opens in front of them, comfortingly familiar. Like every warp-capable ship, the _Skyward_ has internal stabilizers, dampeners and gravity balancers to reduce the effects of light speed acceleration, but Jim imagines he can feel it, anyway, pressing him gently into the pilot seat. He missed this, and revels unashamedly in the sheer powerat the command of his fingertips. As much as he loved the _Bug –_ a shame they'll have to leave her behind – there is nothing that beats the awing of a true star ship at full speed.

  


Within seconds, they've left Earth behind. Jim calls up the deep-space scanners on the forward port screen. No pursuers. Of course not. The only thing capable of following them now is another Dreadnought, and Jim suspects, morbidly amused, that they will be quite busy for a while. Letting the scanners run on a continuous routine nevertheless, he re-checks the course he set, then swivels around in the pilot seat. “We're clear.”

  


“Jesus, Jim.” Scotty stares at him, red-eyed and shocked. Jim braces himself for an accusation that doesn't come. Scotty's expression changes to devastation, then anger. Finally, he deflates visibly, sagging into his seat. He looks to the side, at the corpses lying broken and folded near the turbo-lift. “Where are we headed?”

  


“New Vulcan.” It's the only safe haven Jim can think of. 

  


Scotty winces. “The Vulcans won't be thrilled with a Dreadnought popping up in their nearer vicinity.”

  


“They'll have to deal with it.” Jim shifts his gaze to Khan, who won't be thrilled about their destination, either, but Khan only nods shortly, jaw set. “And they'll take in the colonists. Besides, they still have connections to what's left of the Federation, so they'll be able to monitor the outcome of that...battle.” Jim checks the route again. “We'll arrive in thirteen hours.”

  


“Great.” Scotty scrubs a hand over his face. “So that's it, then? We'll just turn our backs and run? Christ, all those people...”

  


It pains Jim to see how disappointed Scotty is, how small and worn he suddenly looks. The man has never been anything but a very good, supportive friend, even when Jim hit rock bottom; Scotty built the _Bug_ from scratch to help Jim escape the funk, the downward spiral of depression, and never turned on him. Now it feels like Jim somehow did him wrong. 

  


What is Spock going to say? How will Uhura react? The Vulcans _will_ take in the colonists, but Jim isn't so sure _he_ will be welcome any longer. 

  


Scotty turns his seat so he's facing Khan. “How did you do it? The Klingons. How did you get them here?”

  


“Terra-Orbit Transporter.” Khan too, looks worn, smaller, exhausted. For the first time since laying eyes on him again, Jim notices the tears and stains in Khan's clothes, the grime in rings around his throat. “A project of Admiral Marcus', not unlike your Trans-Warp Equation. The Reborn were using it to man the Dreadnoughts at a moment's notice. It was located in the _Presidio_ when I worked on it. Luckily, the Reborn never moved the arrays.”

  


And if they had? Jim can piece the story together from here, but says nothing. The more he looks at Khan, the more he's seeing the obvious signs of bone-deep exhaustion. Due to having been dosed with drugs several times, Jim doesn't know how long exactly he was held underground, but he spent six and a half days in his little cell and another three in the large complex with Scotty and the colonists. 

  


Khan looks like he's been going for longer than that. And now, inevitably, like an ancient wind-up toy rattling in its last throws, he's winding down. 

  


Scotty sees it, too. “You look like shite,” he tells Khan bluntly, then holds the resulting wintry glare without flinching. “I think this can wait.”

  


“Yeah,” Jim agrees. “We should see to the colonists. And we should contact the Vulcan Council, to prepare them for our arrival.”

  


“I'll do that. You two get out of here. Find a quiet corner and do...whatever it is you do.” Scotty rises and steps up to the side of the command seat, making a shooing motion with both hands. “Up you get.” 

  


Khan stares up at Scotty, expressionless. Then his mouth quirks into a brief smile of amusement, as though he can't quite believe Scotty's just _ordered_ him out of the _Skyward's_ command seat. But then, that's Scotty for you. Jim can barely suppress his own smile, remembering a hot, sweltering day on New Vulcan, with beer and a birthday cake, and being gently manhandled into a hangar on the other side of the colony, where life finally started looking a little less crappy. 

  


Khan pushes himself up, swaying a little. He doesn't protest the arm Jim slings around his middle. “My people -”

  


“Are in the med-bay, safe and sound.” Jim doesn't have to explain that med-bays are generally the safest place on a star ship, with independent shielding and reinforced walls and doors. Khan designed the Dreadnoughts – he'll know all this. Jim doubts any of the colonists will go wandering about the _Skyward_ , but makes a mental note to put an override on those doors nevertheless as soon as he has Khan somewhere flat and horizontal. “Come on.”

  


Scotty takes the vacated command seat. “Jim.”

  


“Yeah?”

  


“I'm not...” Scotty grimaces. “I'm not _happy_ with how this ended. But, thank you.”

  


Jim's not happy with the outcome of his insane plan to go up against the Reborn Empire, either, but what more can he hope for? Reduced in numbers they may be, but the surviving colonists and Augments are now safe, and they're leaving Earth far behind. He has Khan back at his side, leaning heavier and heavier into him, and Scotty, while undoubtedly angry and disappointed, doesn't _hate_ him. 

  


It's not the glorious, end-of-days last stand Jim was envisioning when he asked Spock to release Khan, and yet, beneath all the horror, the pain, the disappointment, it is a tiny, tiny victory. He'll take that, and deal with the recriminations and the inevitable fallout later. For now, he has a lover to take care of. 

  


\- - -

  


Unsurprisingly, the _Skyward's_ captain's quarters are as imposing as the rest of the ship. Working hard to ignore the knowledge that they were once Admiral Kerensky's quarters, Jim maneuvers Khan through the oval sliding door and inside. Sleek, stark lines greet him; everything is either black or dark gray. Even the sheets on the bed, tucked away into the far corner, are black. Depressive – it feels like walking into a mausoleum. 

  


Khan is all but comatose at this point. It worries Jim to see him so out of it, worries him even more that Khan hasn't said anything about the low number of surviving Augments. Jim steers them toward the bed. They're both in need of a serious, long shower and their clothes are done for, but like Scotty said, it can wait. Jim gently dumps Khan on the edge of the bed, kneels in front of him, and begins to work Khan's boots off. 

  


A hand landing warmly on the side of his neck distracts him. Jim looks up into blue-green, hazy eyes, tugs off the second boot to throw it carelessly to the side, and leans up between Khan's knees, angling for a kiss. It's slower than the quick snog in the command seat, gentler, affirming. Jim busies himself with finding the bottom hem of Khan's shirt, pulling it up and off when they part for breath. 

  


_Oh_. 

  


No great, bleeding holes, no, but a patchwork of scabbing scratches and violet-yellow bruises. Gently, Jim traces one of the larger ones, which sits right on the cusp of Khan's left pectoral. No, it can't wait. He needs to know what caused these. “You got access to that transport system. Then you beamed aboard the _Skyward_. Killed the skeleton crew. Then what?”

  


“Qo'noS.” Khan's voice has dropped into the lower registers, soft with fatigue. He dips his head, rests his brow against Jim's. Together, they watch the slow progression of Jim's fingertips over bruise-marred skin. “Their capital.” Jim progresses onto a narrow cut down the side of Khan's ribs. “I bombed it.”

  


Startled, Jim barks out a laugh. No wonder the Klingons had come in full force. “You're mad.” Jim presses a quick kiss to Khan's cheek to take the sting out of the words, finding the button and zip of Khan's pants and undoing them deftly. “Then?”

  


“I waited. For them to assemble their armada. Days.” Quick, shivery breath. With a lack of coordination that's frankly alarming, Khan paws at Jim's shoulder, finding a hold and squeezing. “The Klingon ships are so _slow_. It took so long. I _wanted_ to be back sooner. If I'd – my people -” 

  


Innards clenching, Jim pushes him flat so he can work the pants off Khan's long legs. More bruises there, intricate patterns over thigh and shin, star-shaped, fading craters where phaser guns found their marks. That none of them have healed yet just shows how far Khan pushed himself, how long he refused to give in to the recuperating Augment repair. He must have simply muscled his way through, first out of the ambush at Margaret Wallace's apartment building, then into the _Presidio_. 

  


Then across the entire Alpha Quadrant, all the way into the heart of the Klingon Empire, only to turn back around and make the same trip again, this time with an armada of Klingon ships nipping at his heels. 

  


And now Khan knows the truth, knows that only six Augments remain. He looks _shattered_. Whatever pretense he held onto on the bridge is gone. 

  


Jim rises, pulling off his own shirt. It's still wet, clinging stubbornly. He'll burn the clothes later, incinerate them in a garbage chute. It's not going to make the memory of having been trapped, at the mercy of the Reborn, fade any faster, but at least he can get rid of the physical evidence. He shimmies out of the gray pants and kicks them aside, too. 

  


Khan stretches, watching Jim through half-lidded eyes. Jim crawls onto the bed and over the recumbent, pale body, slotting them together. He could have lost this. Could have lost him. 

  


They don't speak. When they rest locked together from sternums to ankles, the captain's quarters cool and dark around them, Khan finally, _quietly_ , falls apart.

  


\- - -

  


_**New Zealand, Camp Hope, 1979** _

  


_Names are picked at random, when numbers no longer suffice. Professor Eugene tasks a group of nurses, usually employed to take care of the general concerns of their little charges, to assign them. A bad idea, in retrospect: the children end up with names like Otto, Joaquin, Esmeralda, Twilight, Hope and Dante. Unfortunately the newly-named prodigies take to this feature like fish to water, and by the time Professor Eugene and the other members of the senior staff at Camp Hope attempt damage control, it is too late to change the names or revert to the old system of referring to the children by numbers._

  


_In a fit of pique, Professor Eugene fires the entire nursing staff. The children – the Augments – care little for who provides them with fresh clothes and meals. At nine years of age, they have been raised to be as self-sufficient as possible. They undergo a daily regime of physical exercises and schooling that would have adults reduced to weeping heaps of misery._

  


_Professor Eugene has high hopes for the Alpha group. Genetic engineering has progressed in leaps and bounds since the lift of several bans and the overall more relaxed stance toward ethical concerns. Of course, there are setbacks: the scientists are only now learning how to mix together all the desirable traits. Mutations and flaws often don't become apparent until it's too late, years down the line; just a month ago, little 'Ferdinand' had to be taken to the operation room, to remove the growth of a third, unwanted arm, and the boy had already been three years old by the time fingers began to grow in his left armpit._

  


_The Augments are kept carefully separated according to_ usability _. Group Alpha consists of only the strongest and brightest. They inhabit a separate facility than the other groups and aren't encouraged to mingle; Camp Hope is expected to produce the super-soldiers that will save Earth from self-destruction – by its predominant species' own hand, no less – and they cannot afford to allow their little Augments to develop such undesired traits as compassion or, God forbid, pity, not even for their own kind._

  


_A soldier has no use for pity. Loyalty, yes – certainly that's an ideal to strive for. Perfection, of course, another. Cold, analytical minds will triumph where religious fanatics and daydreaming peacemakers have failed. In order to lead mankind on the right path, the Augments have to be_ better _than men._

  


_It is July 15 th, 1979._

  


_Professor Eugene sits in on one of the numerous lessons on strategy, observing from a corner, a clipboard on his knee. Group Alpha numbers one hundred children, all nine years of age. They sit silently, upright in their little chairs, all eyes on the teacher. No one here has an IQ under 185._

  


_No one is talking, or whispering, or passing notes. It is a bright, beautifully sunny day, but not one pair of eyes strays away from the blackboard to the windows. In their uniform clothing and their short, practical haircuts, the boys and girls of Group Alpha behave like attentive soldiers already, and Professor Eugene's breast swells with pride and a sense of accomplishment long before the lesson is over._

  


_When the bell rings and the teacher, Mrs. Gulling from Oxford, has assigned the homework and which chapters to revise, the children rise as one. Chairs are put back orderly, pens and pencils and rulers are stored in the small desk compartments. This was the last lesson of the day. After lunch, Group Alpha will proceed to the physical part of their daily routine._

  


_Professor Eugene exchanges a few words with Mrs. Gulling. Yes, the children progress through the learning material far faster than even the brightest students Mrs. Gulling ever had the pleasure of tutoring at Oxford. Yes, they are all expected to pass the upcoming proficiency tests with flying colors._

  


_Content, he leaves the classroom. In the corridor outside he comes across a group of two boys and a girl engaged in what appears to be a discussion on warfare. “- complete annihilation,” the girl is saying, just as Eugene comes within earshot, “would be only way.” She's a pretty little thing, dark-skinned and almond-eyed. The name 'Ann' is stamped into the chest of her overall. “One should not extend courtesy to animals,” she glances briefly at Professor Eugene, “and the Brazilian War was little more than slaughter.”_

  


_Eugene thinks of himself as a father to all of them. They might not see it the same way – they're certainly not encouraged to think in ways of family – but he feels accomplished again, to find the Augments so engrossed in the lessons that they've taken to discussing them even when class is over. With a smile, he joins them. “Hello, you three.”_

  


_The two boys, up to now with their backs to him, turn around. Three child voices pipe out a choral, “Hello, Professor Eugene.” The blond boy, Joaquin, whispers stage-softly, “But surely the sheer numbers needed to accomplish such a task would prove too difficult to muster.”_

  


_The third boy, pale as new snow, with dark hair and shockingly bright eyes of a color somewhere between sea-foam and gray, shakes his head. Professor Eugene sighs inwardly; the poor little devil ended up with the name 'Khan Noonien'. Whoever came up with_ that _abomination, Eugene's glad he fired them._

  


_Khan, who has to crane his head all the way back to look up at Professor Eugene, says, “No. Every army has a weakness. You only need find it.”_

  


\- - -

  


It is the year 2270.

  


Khan, it turns out, has no problems whatsoever to work together with people other than Jim, if there's a goal to be reached; he works side by side with Scotty, the technical lingo flying hard and fast while they argue and test and recalibrate, until even Jim – who's certainly above average intelligence – only understands 'trans-wired' this and 'quantum-booster' that. 

  


Together, they need only a week to adapt the cloaking device from a Romulan freighter to fit into the complicated internal workings of a Dreadnought. Now the _Skyward_ hangs in orbit above New Vulcan, strategically placed directly above the Vulcan capital planet-side, hidden from all but the most sophisticated scanners. 

  


Although the loss of so many of his people weighs heavily on Khan, he works through his grief. Six Augments yet remain, unaware and asleep in their cryo-tubes. Khan's mood is terrible for the first few days after they reach New Vulcan, leaving Jim's at a loss, not knowing what to do or say to help him; they have their first fight as a couple, over nothing, over pent-up emotions. Make-up sex doesn't happen, but they do find each other again, eventually, and slowly, slowly, Khan regains his footing. 

  


Scotty, inadvertently or not, helps. The Scotsman takes an immediate liking to the _Skyward_ and descends upon Khan with ideas, questions and plans to make her even better. 

  


Christmas comes and goes. The new year is celebrated. 

  


Jim spends the days in the Vulcan capital while Khan and Scotty transform the _Skyward_ into a viable, movable home for people who don't have one. The New Vulcan Council has made it quite clear that neither Khan nor the Augments, who still remain frozen in their cryo-tubes, are welcome on Vulcan soil. Lacking capable ships of their own, they can do nothing about the _Skyward_ in their orbit; Khan, blithely and with the sort of smile Jim's come to recognize as Khan's way of silently saying 'FUCK YOU', maneuvers the _Skyward_ directly above the capital when Spock informs him of the council's decision. 

  


Jim's lucky that _he's_ still allowed to set foot on the planet, and that's only by dint of Spock standing up for him to the Vulcan elders. He'd hoped to keep Khan's involvement in bringing the Klingon fleet to Earth under wraps. That hope was dashed quickly – Sarah and a handful of the rescued colonists went straight to the council the moment they were beamed down to the planet. 

  


It hadn't taken much for the Vulcans to make the logical connection between the _Skyward_ being used to rescue the colonists and the Klingons attacking Earth. 

  


Jim isn't welcome in the colony anymore. 

  


He overcomes his disappointment and the smell of burned bridges by spending the days with T'sha, Uhura and Spock. T'sha is happy to see him. Jim is her godfather and she loves him. She's as smart as her parents and she knows the political situation in the Alpha Quadrant has just taken an interesting turn, but she doesn't let it deter her from calling Jim 'uncle' and telling him, with a child's joyful abandon, about her day at school and how she'd like to be a scientist when she grows up. 

  


Uhura's reaction to the outcome of Jim's plan teeters between justified outrage and genuine gladness that he made it back in one piece. She hasn't been a citizen of Earth in years; still, like Scotty, she isn't happy with how things turned out. 

  


“You're an idiot,” she tells him. They're sitting on the balcony of Uhura's and Spock's house in the capital, watching T'sha play in the garden below. Uhura's drawn her feet up on the edge of her chair and cradles a cup of tea against her chest. “If I'd known what you were up to, I would have locked you up in a cell myself.” She sighs, takes a sip of tea. Jim watches her profile against the dramatic background of a Vulcan sundown. “If your full involvement in all this ever becomes known, you'll be a wanted war criminal. And what this will do to Earth...”

  


Reports from Earth come in almost daily, sent by other Federation members who've finally remembered they signed up for more than just being observers. No one is willing to pick a side, but at least they've gone from sitting back and watching to actively monitoring. They have to, out of sheer self-preservation. 

  


The war between Earth and the Klingons still rages, after more than a month. It surprises everyone, Jim included; the Reborn managed to regroup absurdly fast, following that unexpected attack of the Klingon armada, and though war now literally stands on Earth's doorstep, all signs currently point to this turning into yet another stalemate, somewhere down the road. 

  


Even the combined brunt of the Klingon forces cannot overcome the swarm of Dreadnoughts protecting Earth.

  


Jim doesn't know whether to be glad or saddened by this. The sadist in him demands Earth be overrun and the Reborn ground to dust, while the voice of reason cautions him against such sweeping hate. 

  


“You're disappointed.” He doesn't make it a question. 

  


“Yes. And angry.” Uhura shrugs. “Not about the Reborn. The _willing_ Reborn, mind. But Earth was my home, once.”

  


It's no one's home now. Now and then, the Klingons manage to break through the thick of the Dreadnoughts: a cruiser, a handful of War Birds. Kamikaze attacks, with no objective other than destruction. San Francisco is gone, and so are New York, Paris, London. Vast stretches of countryside on all continents have been rendered uninhabitable by the same cleansing chemical fire the Klingons used to scorch the Ketha Province with. 

  


Perhaps it doesn't matter who wins the war. Earth is lost, either way. 

  


“God, Jim.” Uhura stares at him over the rim of the cup, dark eyes stormy and full of pain. “What were you _thinking_?”

  


There's no answer satisfying enough that Jim can offer her. He's run out of anger. He's gone over all events a million times in his head and came to the same conclusion every time: he'd do it all over again, just like that. Perhaps not the part where he ended up caught by the Reborn and subjected to drugs, and if he'd known about the unbearable circumstances in that holding area under Starfleet Headquarters, he would have spent less time on Orion. He would have set out immediately after the first time the Dreadnoughts descended on new Vulcan. 

  


But the rest? Jim finds he can live with being blamed for being the catalyst that brought the Klingons to Earth. He's not sorry; he has Khan, and though he hasn't achieved his main objective in _numbers_ , he did rescue the colonists. 

  


Uhura looks away. “They're going to ask you to leave. Not because of you, but because,” she points a finger at the sky above them. 

  


Jim expected as much. Khan has no reason to stick to Vulcan space. He's working with Scotty because Scotty's available and expressed an interest in learning more about the _Skyward_ ; Khan keeps the ship where it is because Jim is on the planet. “I know.” He folds his hands, studies his fingers. “When?”

  


Uhura takes another sip of tea. “Soon.”

  


In the garden below, T'sha chases a football-sized _Oocono_ bug through the bushes. New Vulcan's suns hang low and fat over the horizon. It's peaceful – as close to peaceful as Jim has ever known, even before Khan stepped into his life – and surreal at the same time. A war is raging, only a few hours of warp-travel away. In a new, cleared area close to the Vulcan capital, the remaining colonists have begun the arduous task of rebuilding their home. 

  


Jim doesn't belong here anymore, he feels it in the marrow of his bones. _Starfleet captains belong to the stars, Jim_ , Old Spock had told him. Leaning back in the wicker balcony chair, Jim gazes up at the sky, imagining he can see the tiny, black dot that is the _Skyward_ above them. 

  


\- - -

  


A week later, Spock approaches him. “We need to talk.” 

  


Night has fallen. Uhura and T'sha have already retired to bed. Jim's taken to sitting up long into the evening, just soaking up the warmth of approaching summer, until he signals to Khan to beam him up to the _Skyward_ for the night. If these are going to be his last days on New Vulcan, he'll make the most of them. Sometimes, Sarek sits with him, sometimes Uhura; often, Spock and Jim will sit in comfortable silence. 

  


Tonight Spock, pacing the length of the balcony, cuts right to the chase. “The Council will ask you to leave. We've debated the wisdom of allowing the _USS Skyward_ to remain in orbit above our planet and the elders have made it clear they don't appreciate the presence of an enemy ship in Vulcan space.”

  


“It's not an enemy ship.” Jim isn't going to argue the Vulcan Council's decision, but he isn't going to let this misconception stand. “It's a home. Or going to be one.”

  


“Be that as it may, they want it gone.” Spock stops pacing, his back turned to Jim, and gazes out into the garden. “I cannot say I disagree with them. The presence of Khan anywhere near my family and my people, as few as remain of them, is not acceptable.”

  


Jim's not going to attempt to change anyone's perception of Khan: it's an uphill battle he can't win, one he's ill-equipped for. The entire affair has brought up Jim's involvement, not only in this but also in the events ten year ago, to the forefront again. The Vulcans won't judge him for dying and being brought back to life by a desperate friend; unarguably, while his desperate actions in the _Enterprise's_ warp core were born of his own split-second decisions, he hardly had any influence over what McCoy did afterward. Yet everything else, from wanting Khan released to going to Orion and everything that came after, Jim did all that with his eyes wide open. 

  


The colonist just want both the _Skyward_ , its occupants, and Jim, gone. The few who haven't forgotten it was Jim who rescued them either don't care enough or are too timid to make their opinions known; Sarah Keegan, the terra-former, has taken over management of the colony's affairs, and she doesn't hesitate to voice her distrust of Jim and 'that insane asshole' he keeps company with. 

  


“So,” Jim says, “that's it, then.”

  


Spock turns to face him. “I've spoken with Mr. Scott. The work on the _Skyward_ will be finished by the end of the week. There is no reason to tolerate the ship's presence any longer than that.”

  


Doesn't take a genius to figure out the rest. “So I get the choice between making Khan go away and staying here where no one wants me, or going away with him.” Spock nods. Jim scoffs. “Not much of a choice, is it?”

  


Spock frowns. “Your loyalty to that individual is illogical -”

  


“My loyalty to 'that individual' is love, Spock,” Jim points out, “and that's never logical.” He holds up a hand in a placating gesture. “We're not going to argue. Not about this.”

  


Spock just looks at him, looking like he'd very much love to argue. Then, though, he backs off. “You're leaving, then.”

  


Of course he is. Jim can no more leave Khan behind, or send him on his way, than he could abandon half of his heart, half of his brain. The shivery, doubted and fragile thing that began between them in San Francisco has solidified and rooted deeply. “Yes.”

  


They remain silent for a long moment, Jim in his wicker balcony chair, Spock at the railing. Once more, Jim thinks about parallels, or repeat events: a scene not unlike this one began his mad crusade against the Reborn, only it had been him demanding, him asking to have Khan released, him hell-bent on destruction. Spock isn't demanding or bent on destruction, but still. Parallels, it seems, have become Jim's lot in life. 

  


“I wish things had turned out differently,” Spock offers, eventually. 

  


This uncharacteristic display of cleaving to insubstantial could-have-beens instead of the attainable, the solid, the trusted-tested-known, is perhaps in itself one defining characteristic of Spock's reactions to many things concerning Jim, past and present. His anguish is betrayed in the tight lines of his face, the subtle slant of his eyebrows. All too well, Jim can imagine Spock standing up for him to the Vulcan elders; for Jim, Spock will abandon logic and reason. 

  


Jim cannot be angry at him, or the other Vulcans. “Sometimes I wish I had died and stayed dead,” he admits. “That Bones hadn't brought me back to life. But we don't always get what we want, do we? We get what we deserve.”

  


Spock slants an eyebrow at him. “Then by that argument, you imply...”

  


“Yes.” Jim leans back, looking up into the night sky. “That's exactly what I'm implying.”

  


And all things considered, that isn't such a bad thing, after all. 

  


\- - -

  


That night, when Scotty has been beamed down to the surface of New Vulcan, Jim walks the _Skyward's_ corridors aimlessly. He's pensive rather than depressed or angry, and soon the changes to the ship Scotty take over his attention. The _Skyward_ is a warship, she wasn't built to accommodate passengers for a long time, much less function as a permanent home. The changes range from subtle – better lighting in the living areas – to blatant – a fully equipped med-bay, without the ubiquitous torture-bots hanging threateningly over the bio-beds. 

  


The six cryo-tubes are still in their orderly, little pyramid, stacked in the middle of the med-bay. Leaning in the doorway, Jim wonders when Khan will wake the remaining Augments. _If_ he will ever wake them. The man has been surprisingly reluctant on this topic, when Jim breaches it. 

  


Jim leaves the med-bay, locking it securely with an override only he and Khan know, and continues on his way to the bridge. Now that he's spent a few days familiarizing himself with the design and the functions, the ship doesn't strike him as quite so sepulchral anymore. Impressive, yes, intimidating – but also fascinating. The _Skyward_ is the _Enterprise's_ shadow twin in so many ways. 

  


All in all, leaving won't be so horrible. There's nothing left for Jim on New Vulcan, nothing with enough of a draw to keep him tethered to this place. He loves Spock and Uhura, and Scotty and Sulu and T'sha, but not enough to live on their fringes like an unwelcome relative, a pariah. He's done that for years, and he's sick of it. He cannot imagine going back to how things were. 

  


But he can imagine going somewhere else. 

  


It's selfish to turn his back on troubles that are far from resolved, but Jim thinks he's earned it, earned a fucking _break_ , and he's not going to spend it orbiting New Vulcan, at a distance the Vulcan Council deems comfortable, or taking up his old hobby of smuggling goods to the colony. 

  


It's time for Jim to lay down the guns. Let someone else take his place. He's done enough. 

  


The _Skyward's_ bridge lies in comfortable darkness when Jim arrives. Here and there the flicker of computer banks betrays the giant ship's wakeful state. Jim heads toward the soft, blue glow surrounding the command seat and the man sprawled in it. A miniature hologram with accompanying fields of data hovers over the armrest, looking like it's projected straight out of the back of Khan's hand, showing an apparatus that looks a little bit like a food synthesizer. 

  


“Working on a toaster?”

  


“A fusion between replicators and synthesizers. More efficient, less waste of space.” Khan switches off the hologram when Jim steps into view, leaving the bridge in almost complete darkness. Only a sliver of New Vulcan's moon is visible through the forward port screen, pale and cold. Khan cocks his head. “They want me gone.”

  


The Vulcan Council likely hailed the _Skyward_ before Spock returned home to speak to Jim. “Us,” Jim corrects. He takes Khan by the wrists and draws him out of the command seat, down the few steps until they're both on even ground. “They want _us_ gone.” He slips his hands under the hem of Khan's shirt, caressing his sides. “I'm all for doing what they're asking.”

  


“Mmm.” Khan's hands go on a slow journey of their own. He doesn't look at all concerned that the Vulcan Council considers him a threat and set him an ultimatum – until the end of the week, three more days. “And go where?”

  


Jim hasn't really thought about it, and with Khan leaning into him and leaving a trail of wet kisses down the side of his throat, doesn't care to devote brainpower that could be used for better endeavors than a question of location. Space is vast. The Alpha Quadrant is just one tiny part of a giant and possibly endless wilderness there for the taking. 

  


“Let's talk about it later,” Jim suggests. 

  


They separate long enough for Khan to power down the non-vital functions of the _Skyward_. They leave little pieces of themselves all the way from the bridge to the captain's quarters, which Jim now thinks of as _their_ quarters: boots on the bridge, Khan's shirt in the turbo-lift, Jim's just outside the 'lift doors. It's not like anyone's going to _complain_ about the trail of clothes; the ship is theirs. 

  


“Well,” Khan quips when they've divested themselves of the few remaining articles of clothing, “this ship will need a captain.”

  


“Is that so?” Jim prowls forward, crowding against him. “What about the guy who's been hogging the command seat all the time, then?”

  


“Oh, I don't know.” The smirk on Khan's face is downright teasing. “I think, with a little incentive, he can be persuaded to step down. _Occasionally_.”

  


Jim pounces. They roll around on the wide bed for a while. Sex has been a regular occurrence since the _Skyward_ arrived above New Vulcan, and Jim's rediscovery of his sex drive has been a glorious, gorgeous adventure. He was thrilled to discover that Khan _really_ likes being fucked – enough that it sometimes ends up in little mock fights about who's going to have be on top, because Jim likes it, too.

  


Tonight, there is no fight. Whether it's the arrival of the conclusion to his half-life on New Vulcan or the prospect of a new, exiting future waiting for him, Jim's feeling stuffed to the brim with energy, and he flips Khan onto his belly without further ado, plastering himself all along that lovely, lean back. He nips and licks the spot on Khan's neck just under his hairline, grinning at the resulting growl. 

  


“Patience,” Jim chides.

  


“I'll show you _patience_ ,” Khan retorts, muscles tensing as he prepares to roll them both over again, but Jim shifts down, marking his passage with the tip of his tongue gliding softly along the path of Khan's spine, and Khan melts against the bed with a low groan, defeated soundly and swiftly. 

  


“Gotcha,” Jim murmurs, smug. 

  


They've done some kinky stuff, but nothing beats this: the slow flush spreading from Khan's cheeks all the way down to his chest when Jim gently nudges his legs apart and licks into the core of him, holding him open mercilessly. It's _decadent_ , the way Khan responds to the slick glide of lips, the teasing probing of Jim's tongue. He moans and shivers, stretching like a cat against the sheets, enjoying himself so much it turns Jim on in return, until they're both blatantly humping the mattress. Sometimes Jim will make him come just like that, burying his tongue deep and holding Khan's balls in a cupped hand so he can feel them tighten and draw up.

  


Not tonight. Jim ends his ministrations with a luxurious suckle, dragging an extra-deep rumble of contentment from Khan. “Turn over. I want to see your face.” He stretches a hand out for the nightstand, retrieving a generously sized container of lube. They can do without, their bodies capable of ignoring discomfort and pain in favor of pleasure, but Jim decided he doesn't want to abuse either of them that way. “Hold yourself open for me.”

  


He sits back on his heels, coating his fingers with the clear, near-liquid stuff he nicked from the med-bay, which is probably intended for another use entirely, and watching Khan turn over languidly. He's been hard pretty much since they hit the sheets, and the teasing show Khan puts on, drawing his long legs up with a hand under each knee, baring himself unashamedly and completely, pushes Jim that much closer to the edge. 

  


Khan has pulled his knees almost all the way up to his shoulders, making a show of how flexible he is. He's still flushed, lips swollen from biting them, cock hard and leaking against his belly, watching Jim with a predator's keenness. 

  


“Such a pretty sight,” Jim murmurs, glowing with pride that _he's_ responsible for it, and Khan chuckles, the sound quickly transforming into a moan when Jim's slick hand finds the hardness of him, stroking slowly. There's more, kept firmly behind Jim's teeth: _baby_ , and _darling_ , and _I'm going to kill anyone who so much as_ breathes _at you_. 

  


It doesn't need to be said out loud. Jim guides himself, rolls his hips _in_ , falling forward on elbows and knees so they're flush against each other, face to face. He can go deep like this, fuck slow and hard just the way Khan likes it, and catch the sighs and groans as they travel between them. He works them both up to a nice plateau of pleasure, feeling the beginnings of climax already tickling the base of his spine, the muscles of his thighs. 

  


He holds on for as long as he can. Fast and breathtaking has its place, but so does slow and thorough. Khan lifts his legs over Jim's shoulders to free his hands and lays his fingers against Jim's jaw, drawing him into slow, drugged kisses, leaving them both wanting for breath. 

  


“We'll go where no one has gone before,” Jim gasps when he comes, worming one hand between them to work Khan's length, wanting them there _together_ , or as close as he can make it. Under him, Khan is arching, growling, lifting his hips into every thrust with what little leverage he has. “All – all the way - to,” Jim's speech fractures, climax raking him. Khan's release spills hot over his fingers, messily between them. 

  


The darkness behind Jim's eyes is sprinkled with stars. 

  


Afterward, tangled together on sticky sheets, Jim lies with his ear pressed over Khan's heart. He's turning into a mushy, love-bitten _fool_ , and he's enjoying every minute of it. Khan is drawing symbols and shapes on his back with gentle fingertips while they both come down from the high and let post-coital fatigue lull them toward sleep. 

  


“All the way to where?” Khan asks, dragging Jim away from the tempting precipice of unconsciousness. “Do you have a specific location in mind?”

  


With his toes, Jim fishes for one of the tangled blankets. “Does it matter?”

  


Khan is silent while Jim manages to trap the blanket and pull it up over them. “No,” he says, finally.

  


\- - -

  


In the morning – after they've gone through the tedious motions of showering and hunting down clean clothes and breakfast – Jim takes the command seat, flopping down into it with a salacious grin. He's sat in it before, and takes it now mostly to tease Khan when the other man arrives on the bridge and responds to Jim's indolent, cocky sprawl with a quirked eyebrow. 

  


There's a message waiting for acknowledgment, from Scotty, the Vulcan Council or Spock. Jim ignores it for now, not wanting to spoil the good mood. While Khan resumes working on his toaster/synthesizer/replicator hybrid, Jim hijacks the forward port screen for information on the _Skyward's_ warp core schematics to familiarize himself with them. He's holding onto the hope that once they've woken Khan's crew, one of the six Augments can take over the post of Chief Engineer. Until that happens, _if_ it happens, Jim's going to have to be able to do repairs by himself.

  


Silence unfolds around them like a comfortable blanket, interrupted occasionally by the beep of a scanner or the silvery _ping_ of a computer process. 

  


When he's done with the warp core schematics and the peripheral reading material, Jim remembers something he's been meaning to ask about for a while now. “What happened to that virus?”

  


The hologram floating in front of Khan now has acquired wiry parts going every which way. “I still have it. It's stored in the med-bay.” He waves the hologram away, raising his arms above his head for a stretch. “I couldn't risk using it while I didn't know where you and the others were, and there was no time to distribute it properly once I had you on board.”

  


“I see.” Khan could have just launched the vials out an air-lock, Jim guesses, and the virus would have spread on its own. It's weird: they went through so much trouble to create that stuff, what with the blood-giving and watching the incubators ticking down for hours, and in the end the thing that _should_ have been their most powerful weapon saw very little real application. Pensively, Jim asks, “Do you still want to use it?”

  


“On the Reborn?” Khan stares off into space for a bit. “No. It would be a strategic nightmare to get close to the planet now, even with the Romulan cloaking device. The risks would outweigh the benefits.” He calls up the hologram again, rotating his little pet project around its axis in 3-D. “Besides, that problem might well take care of itself.”

  


It might, it might not. The latest battlefront reports, sent via encrypted channel by the Tellarites, indicate a steady decline of Klingon ships joining up with the armada already engaged with the Dreadnoughts. It means very little; for all anyone knows at this point, the Klingons could just be regrouping somewhere else. Jim swivels the command seat this way and that. “Do you want to wait around to find out?”

  


Khan doesn't even look up. “Not particularly. Do you?”

  


“Nope.” Jim propels himself out of the seat and across the bridge, right into the hologram. He lays a lip-smacking kiss on Khan's already-open-to-protest-mouth, grins, and dances out of reach when Khan makes to pinch him in retaliation. “Beam me down. There's a few people I want to say good-bye to in person. If it's all the same to you, the sooner we leave, the better.”

  


“Why the sudden hurry? We have two more days until the end of the week.”

  


Jim shrugs. “Nothing else to stick around for, is there?”

  


\- - -

  


Spock is stuck in yet another council meeting, so Jim decides to wait for him at home. T'sha is at school. Uhura takes one look at Jim. “You're leaving today.” She ushers him into the kitchen, taking a seat across from him at the table. “You madman.”

  


Jim spreads his arms wide. “What's here for me?” Uhura's eyes flash dangerously, and he hastens to add, “I love you guys, I really do. You're my best friends and you've done more for me than I deserve. But I'm not going to stay where I'm – where _we_ aren't wanted.”

  


Uhura sighs. She gets up, makes tea. When she returns to the table, her expression wavers between anger and sadness, and she slams his cup down with a flourish. “You know, I wish I hadn't stopped Spock from beating that bastard to a pulp. I wish he'd...” She trails off, staring hard at her cup. “We could attempt to speak to the council again -”

  


“No -”

  


“- or maybe there's a planet nearby where you and -”

  


“Nyota, no.” Jim reaches across the table and takes her hand. “Thank you, but no.” He squeezes her fingers gently. “There'd never be an end. As long as the Augments remain in the Alpha Quadrant, someone is _always_ going to want them, either dead or heeling or to run some goddamn tests on them. That can't happen. We can't stay here.”

  


“”We'? You're not an Augment,” she points out archly. 

  


“No. But I'm going with them nevertheless.”

  


“With _him_ , you mean.”

  


Jim nods. 

  


Uhura sighs noisily. “I'm still waiting for an explanation for that. Are you sure he didn't...drug you, or hypnotized you?”

  


“Very.”

  


They sit and drink tea, passing the time until Spock returns from his council meeting with meaningless smalltalk, carefully skirting the more explosive topics. Neither of them wants to fight on Jim's last visit, though Uhura keeps shaking her head and looking as though she'd like to persuade Jim otherwise. In the end, she says, “You'll come visit. Now and then?”

  


Jim winces. “I'm not sure the Vulcan Council -”

  


“ _Screw_ the council,” she snaps heatedly. “You'll visit. Promise me.”

  


He promises, knowing full well it's not a promise he's sure he can keep, Vulcan Council or not. Depending on where they'll take the _Skyward_ , Khan, Jim and the Augments could be out there for _years_ , and who knows what happens down the line?

  


They could be out there forever. Jim rather likes the idea; he'll be glad to leave the Alpha Quadrant behind for a long time.

  


Later, Spock returns home, T'sha in tow. Jim hugs his goddaughter farewell, tickling her until that wobbly lower lip makes way for peals of laughter, then joins Uhura and Spock on the balcony. His communicator keeps pinging – Scotty, by the looks of it – but Jim ignores it. He's going to visit Scotty before he returns to the _Skyward_ , thank him for everything. 

  


Jim and Spock clasp each other on the shoulder. They said farewell once before, under different circumstances. Spock lets go first, stepping away. “I do hope you plan on visiting, Jim.”

  


Jim exchanges a quick look with Uhura. “The council...”

  


Spock's lip twitches. “May they live long and prosper. You will visit, then?”

  


\- - -

  


Scotty comes stomping up the street to Spock's and Uhura's house just as Jim pulls the door shut. The Scotsman is red-faced and sweating, hair sticking up in clumps and tufts. Jim eyes the various bags and rucksacks, the length of cabling Scotty's trailing like a tail, the PaDDs sticking out of Scotty's pockets and the screwdriver that clatters to the dusty street when Scotty comes to a gasping halt, looking like a demented Santa Clause bearing gifts for the technically-inclined. 

  


“There you are! Laddie, you've _got_ to learn to answer your communicator.” Snapping for breath after that speech, Scotty divests himself of four different bags, straightening up with a groan. He produces a large handkerchief, mopping the sweat off his brow. “All set, then? Said your good-byes and all?”

  


“Yes,” Jim says cautiously. “I was going to come see you next. What's all this?”

  


“This? Oh, just my kit. You never know what you'll end up needing out there, do you?”

  


Jim's mouth falls open. “You want to come with us?”

  


“D'you really think I lugged all this stuff out here just for fun?”

  


“But...the colony.” 

  


Scotty stows his handkerchief. “What about them? They're parked right next to the Vulcan capital. They'll want for nothing, and I've already told everyone I'm leaving.” He grins mischievously. “Didn't tell them _how_ , but let's not rob them of a chance to gossip.”

  


Jim gropes for words. “Scotty, we'll be – look, we'll be out there for _years_. We might not be coming back at all.”

  


“Strange new worlds, all that? Going where no one's gone before?”

  


“Er, yes, the point is -”

  


“The point is,” Scotty interrupts, “I joined Starfleet because I've always wanted to be an explorer. You're going exploring, yes? Good, then that's settled.” Joviality fading to make room for a more somber expression, he shrugs. “If you won't have me, that's one thing. But if you're going to try to talk me out of coming along because you think I'm making a mistake, don't – you'll need someone out there who knows what he's doing with the warp core, and I reckon I'm just the right guy for that job.” He looks up at the sky, shielding his eyes against the sunlight. “I know exactly what I'm doing. Now get us up there.”

  


Overwhelmed, Jim fishes for his communicator. He can't even begin to predict how Khan's going to react, but somehow he suspects that Scotty coming along isn't something Khan will object to. And reaching the edge of the Alpha Quadrant, even if they go full speed, will take at least nine days – if Scotty changes his mind, there's bound to be a friendly planet or space station where they can drop him off. 

  


Secretly, Jim hopes that won't happen. He flips open his communicator. “Jim to _Skyward_. Two to beam up.”

  


“And don't forget my kit!” Scotty adds, hastily.

  


\- - -

  


_**( Jeremy Doyen,** _ **A History of Empires** **_, publication date 2595 )_ **

_Do we stick to cold, hard facts? Do we allow folklore and legend to influence our view of the past? Some descendants of the Humans of New Vulcan claim to this day it was James Tiberius Kirk who rekindled the flame of hatred and cast the long shadow of war upon the Alpha Quadrant once more. Others say it was Khan Noonien Singh, last leader of the Augments, who provoked the Klingons into striking out in full force._

  


_We do not know. We cannot say. Neither James Kirk nor Khan Singh left behind anything by which we can today determine their roles in the events of the past. Hearsay and gossip do not good witnesses make: I will provide that which we_ know _._

  


_The Reborn – Klingon War lasted nine years, from November 2269 until late winter 2278, though skirmishes between the opposing factions were reported up until 2285._

  


_By that time, the Klingon Empire had lost much, if not all, of its former glory. Taking advantage of the distraction provided by the Reborn, many species reclaimed planets once conquered by the Klingons. Borders shifted, alliances were forged, old treaties rediscovered – by 2290, a quarter of the Klingon Empire was no longer under their control and the damages sustained during the war guaranteed no further threat would come from them for centuries._

  


_In 2291, in a move unpredicted and unsanctioned by the Federation, the Romulans launched an attack on Earth, overcoming the remains of the Dreadnought fleet. The planet was rendered inhospitable – reportedly by use of a viral agent, though no trace of such a virus can be found on Earth now – and remains as such until today._

  


_Millions of Reborn died, under circumstances we can only speculate about. The few hundred that managed to escape, most of them stationed on the remaining Dreadnoughts, are assumed to have fled into the deep ends of the Alpha Quadrant. We cannot say now whether these escaped Reborn lived out their days in peace, or if they were hunted down and destroyed._

  


_Perhaps there are today Reborn living among the mixed populations of the planets of the Alpha Quadrant, undiscovered, unaware of their heritage._

  


_\- \- -_

  


**EPILOGUE**

  


**\- \- -**

  


It is the year 2271. 

  


They've left the Qinxaea Nebula behind, the last named _anything_ this side of nowhere, far beyond safe havens and known sights. Past the forward port screen lurks the great unknown, the wild: space unexplored and untouched, unnamed. The deep space scanners, tirelessly working, provide tantalizing data of planets and suns, asteroid clusters and stars. 

  


Jim can't wait to see what's out there, whatever it is. 

  


Already he has made friends: the slender, quadrupedal inhabitants of a tiny planet just past Orelious. They stayed on their sunny, pleasant shores for three days, during which Scotty may or may not have absconded with the odd gadget or two – Khan keeps insisting these gadgets are just toys, while Scotty is adamant about them being miniature propulsion drives – and Jim spent hours every day swimming in the ocean and soaking up the sun. 

  


His communicator pings, reminding him of the time. Leaving the bridge, Jim steps into the turbo-lift and heads for the med-bay. Today is a special day. The _Skyward_ has reached the edge of known space and is ready to take them further than anyone's ever gone. 

  


But that's not all. 

  


Scotty waits for Jim by the entrance of the med-bay, bouncing on the balls of his feet. One of the gadgets – a small, colorful ball that apparently can spout tiny wheels at will – zips around him like a nervous fly. _Yeah,_ Jim thinks, _probably really a toy_ , but he's not going to take a side in the ongoing toy-or-not pettifoggery between Scotty and Khan. He's learned long ago that it's better to stay neutral when these two start arguing. 

  


“Ready?” Scotty asks.

  


“I kind of feel like...” Like a father, preparing to see his newborn child for the first time? Jim doesn't have children so he doesn't really know what that feels like, but he can imagine it feels a bit like this: nervous, giddy, jittery. “Yeah. Yeah, I'm ready. Let's go.”

  


Inside, the med-bay is brightly lit and warm. The six cryo-tubes, now empty, are stacked up against the far wall, already half-dismantled, never to be put to use again. Later, they'll shoot them out into space. Khan has made it very clear that he'd rather see the last of his people die than freeze them up again, thereby leaving them vulnerable to whoever might come across the 'tubes. 

  


Khan acknowledges Jim's and Scotty's arrival with a curt nod. He's moving between the six bio-beds, checking and re-checking scanners, monitors, IV feeds. The six individuals lying on the bio-beds, their eyes closed, their chests rising and sinking regularly, don't see the nervousness that has taken a hold of their leader. 

  


They look better now, these six. Human. _Alive_. Not skeletal anymore, not riddled with barely healed incision scars or suffering from infections. It was hit and miss there, for a while; cryo-sleep had made it impossible to determine what kind of medical care the sleepers would need upon thawing. For a few, agonizing days, Khan didn't set foot outside the med-bay, refusing to so much as sleep. 

  


“It's all prepared and ready,” Khan announces finally. “Barring unforeseen complications -”

  


“There won't be any.” Jim beckons him closer, lacing his fingers into Khan's when he does, after a moment's hesitancy, come. He pecks the corner of Khan's mouth. 

  


Khan glances at the PaDD in his free hand. He enters a command. 

  


The Augments wake. 

  


**END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And done. Thanks to everyone who commented and left kudos! I'm going to go over the entire document again and hunt down the odd misspelling and inconsistency ( PADD/PaDD ), but plot-wise this story is finished. FINALLY!


End file.
